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RIGHT    ROYAL 


BY 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 


Illustrated  by 

CECIL   ALDIN 


29280 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1922 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


Set  up  and  electrotyoed.    Published  October,  1920. 
Illustrated  Edition,  Published  October,  1922. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


.  .        •     •  • 
'  •  •        •    • •• 

•      3      •  •   •      •  ■ 


•••        .•. 


•        •         •       •      '   I 


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•  •  •      •        •*•••  •  ,   *  € 

.....          .           .  •  ,  .         .« 

•  .  •       ,          , 

.....          ■               •  *  »  ,t 


To 
MY  WIFE 


NOTE. 
The  persons,  horses  and  events  described 
in  this  poem  are  imaginary.    No  reference  is 
made  to  any  living  person  or  horse. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


/o  «, 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
IN  COLOUR 

Fating  page 
PULSE  FOR  PULSE  WITH  THE  HEART  OF  LIFE  "  Frontispiece 

"AND  THEY  CHARGED  AT  THE  DANGER,  AND  THE  DAN- 
GER TOOK    TOLL  " 60 

1    "THOUGH    THE    DANGER    GLEAMED    GREYLY,  THEY    GAL- 
LOPED TO   BEARD   IT  " 86 

"TO  LEAD  IN  THE    WINNER    WHILE    THE    BOOKMAKERS 
CHEERED" "4 

u 

i 


Brook 


N 


v 


Fentel 


Pence! 


I     i 


I     I 


Hurdler 


lostLadys 

1   I  1 


'oshl  /?a//« 


TraeA  7sr  f/me  rounrf. » 

Track  2nd  time  round.....—* 


untie  A 
itch  when 
oyalfell 


If 


Turk's  Qra've 


N* 


S 


The  Water 


Hurdle} 


The       Straight 


MIMM 

PotX 


Winning 
"     Post 


Saddling  Paddock 


I    £    I 


Imm 


i 


Starting  Poat 


The  course  of  the  EngUsh  'Chasers'  Cup  is  twice  round  Compton  Course  (about  four  an 
a  half  miles)  over  grass  and  ploughland  with  twenty-nine  jumps. 

Horses  go  round  left-handed,  counter-clockwise,  from  Starting  Post,  taking  Turk's  Grav< 
fence  as  the  first  jump.    The  first  time  round  they  do  not  enter  the  Straight,  but  keep  to  th 
left  of  the  central  enclosure  and  cross  the  Water.    The  second  time  round  they  enter  the 
Straight,  and  finish  just  beyond  the  Grand  Stand. 

The  circuit  is  two  and  a  quarter  miles. 


PART  I 


v*fi**^'**=£^'i*  ^ 


PART  I 

An  hour  before  the  race  they  talked  together, 
A  pair  of  lovers,  in  the  mild  March  weather, 
Charles  Cothill  and  the  golden  lady,  Em. 

Beautiful  England's  hands  had  fashioned  them. 

He  was  from  Sleins,  that  manor  up  the  Lithe. 
Riding  the  Downs  had  made  his  body  blithe; 
Stalwart  he  was,  and  springy,  hardened,  swift, 
Able  for  perfect  speed  with  perfect  thrift, 
Man  to  the  core  yet  moving  like  a  lad. 
Dark  honest  eyes  with  merry  gaze  he  had, 
A  fine  firm  mouth,  and  wind-tan  on  his  skin. 
He  was  to  ride,  and  ready  to  begin. 

He  was  to  ride  Right  Royal,  his  own  horse, 

In  the  English  'Chasers'  Cup  on  Compton  Course. 


ii 


■^.,,    ^ 


^- 


Under  the  pale  coat  reaching  to  his  spurs 
One  saw  his  colours,  which  were  also  hers, 
Narrow  alternate  bars  of  blue  and  white, 
Blue  as  the  speedwell's  eye  and  silver  bright. 

What  with  hard  work  and  waiting  for  the  race, 
Trouble  and  strain  were  marked  upon  his  face; 
Men  would  have  said  that  something  worried  him. 

She  was  a  golden  lady,  dainty,  trim, 

As  like  the  love  time  as  laburnum  blossom. 

Mirth,  truth  and  goodness  harboured  in  her  bosom. 

Pure  colour  and  pure  contour  and  pure  grace 

Made  the  sweet  marvel  of  her  singing  face; 

She  was  the  very  may-time  that  comes  in 

When  hawthorns  bud  and  nightingales  begin. 


12 


To  see  her  tread  the  red-tippt  daisies  white 
In  the  green  fields  all  golden  with  delight 
Was  to  believe  Queen  Venus  come  again, 
She  was  as  dear  as  sunshine  after  rain; 
Such  loveliness  this  golden  lady  had. 

All  lovely  things  and  pure  things  made  her  glad, 
But  most  she  loved  the  things  her  lover  loved, 
The  windy  Downlands  where  the  kestrels  roved, 
The  sea  of  grasses  that  the  wind  runs  over 
Where  blundering  beetles  drunken  from  the  clover 
Stumble  about  the  startled  passer-by. 
There  on  the  great  grass  underneath  the  sky 
She  loved  to  ride  with  him  for  hours  on  hours, 


ft* 
13 


Smelling  the  seasoned  grass  and  those  small  flowers, 
Milkworts  and  thymes,  that  grow  upon  the  Downs. 
There  from  a  chalk  edge  they  would  see  the  towns: 
Smoke  above  trees,  by  day,  or  spires  of  churches 
Gleaming  with  swinging  wind-cocks  on  their  perches. 
Or  windows  flashing  in  the  light,  or  trains 
Burrowing  below  white  smoke  across  the  plains. 
By  night,  the  darkness  of  the  valley  set 
With  scattered  lights  to  where  the  ridges  met 
And  three  great  glares  making  the  heaven  dun, 
Oxford  and  Wallingford  and  Abingdon. 

"Dear,  in  an  hour,"  said  Charles,  "the  race  begins. 

Before  I  start  I  must  confess  my  sins. 

For  I  have  sinned,  and  now  it  troubles  me." 

"I  saw  that  you  were  sad,"  said  Emily. 

"Before  I  speak,"  said  Charles,  "I  must  premise. 
You  were  not  here  to  help  me  to  be  wise, 
And  something  happened,  difficult  to  tell. 
Even  if  I  sinned,  I  feel  I  acted  well, 
From  inspiration,  mad  as  that  may  seem. 
Just  at  the  grey  of  dawn  I  had  a  dream. 

It  was  the  strangest  dream  I  ever  had. 
It  was  the  dream  that  drove  me  to  be  mad. 
14 


V 


T^4 


I  dreamed  I  stood  upon  the  race-course  here, 

Watching  a  blinding  rainstorm  blowing  clear, 

And  as  it  blew  away,  I  said  aloud, 

'That  rain  will  make  soft  going  on  the  ploughed.' 

And  instantly  I  saw  the  whole  great  course, 

The  grass,  the  brooks,  the  fences  toppt  with  gorse, 

Gleam  in  the  sun;  and  all  the  ploughland  shone 

Blue,  like  a  marsh,  though  now  the  rain  had  gone. 

And  in  my  dream  I  said,  'That  plough  will  be 

Terrible  work  for  some,  but  not  for  me. 

Not  for  Right  Royal.' 

And  a  voice  said,  'No, 
Not  for  Right  Royal.' 

And  I  looked,  and,  lo! 
There  was  Right  Royal,  speaking,  at  my  side. 


15 


,   x  k  aeJ3B5^S  l  JJ- 


The  horse's  very  self,  and  yet  his  hide 
Was  like,  what  shall  I  say?  like  pearl  on  fire, 
A  white  soft  glow  of  burning  that  did  twire 
Like  soft  white-heat  with  every  breath  he  drew. 
A  glow,  with  utter  brightness  running  through; 
Most  splendid,  though  I  cannot  make  you  see. 

His  great  crest  glittered  as  he  looked  at  me 
Criniered  with  spitting  sparks;  he  stamped  the  ground 
All  cock  and  fire,  trembling  like  a  hound, 
And  glad  of  me,  and  eager  to  declare 
His  horse's  mind. 

And  I  was  made  aware 
That,  being  a  horse,  his  mind  could  only  say 
Few  things  to  me.    He  said,  '  It  is  my  day, 
My  day,  to-day;  I  shall  not  have  another.' 

And  as  he  spoke  he  seemed  a  younger  brother, 
Most  near,  and  yet  a  horse,  and  then  he  grinned 
And  tossed  his  crest  and  crinier  to  the  wind, 
And  looked  down  to  the  Water  with  an  eye 
All  fire  of  soul  to  gallop  dreadfully. 
16 


All  this  was  strange,  but  then  a  stranger  thing 
Came  afterwards.    I  woke  all  shivering 
With  wonder  and  excitement,  yet  with  dread 
Lest  the  dream  meant  that  Royal  should  be  dead, 
Lest  he  had  died  and  come  to  tell  me  so. 
I  hurried  out;  no  need  to  hurry,  though; 
There  he  was  shining  like  a  morning  star. 
Now  hark.    You  know  how  cold  his  manners  are, 
Never  a  whinny  for  his  dearest  friend. 
To-day  he  heard  me  at  the  courtyard  end, 
He  left  his  breakfast  with  a  shattering  call, 


x7 


.•y-M-f  T    e 3£$M 


A  View  Halloo,  and,  swinging  in  his  stall, 
Ran  up  to  nuzzle  me  with  signs  of  joy. 
It  staggered  Harding  and  the  stable-boy, 
And  Harding  said,  'What's  come  to  him  to-day? 
He  must  have  had  a  dream  he  beat  the  bay.' 

Now  that  was  strange;  and,  what  was  stranger,  this. 

I  know  he  tried  to  say  those  words  of  his, 

'It  is  my  day';  and  Harding  turned  to  me: 

'It  is  his  day  to-day,  that's  plain  to  see.' 

Right  Royal  nuzzled  at  me  as  he  spoke. 

That  staggered  me.    I  felt  that  I  should  choke. 

It  came  so  pat  upon  my  unsaid  thought, 

I  asked  him  what  he  meant. 

He  answered,  '  Naught. 
It  only  came  into  my  head  to  say. 
But  there  it  is.    To-day's  Right  Royal's  day/ 

That  was  the  dream.    I  cannot  put  the  glory 
With  which  it  filled  my  being  in  a  story. 
No  one  can  tell  a  dream. 

Now  to  confess. 
The  dream  made  daily  life  a  nothingness, 
Merely  a  mould  which  white-hot  beauty  fills, 
Pure  from  some  source  of  passionate  joys  and  skills. 
And  being  flooded  with  my  vision  thus, 
Certain  of  winning,  puffed  and  glorious, 
18 


I    > 


rfi^m- 


Walking  upon  this  earth-top  like  a  king, 
My  judgment  went.    I  did  a  foolish  thing; 
I  backed  myself  to  win  with  all  I  had. 

Now  that  it's  done  I  see  that  it  was  mad, 

But  still,  I  had  to  do  it,  feeling  so. 

That  is  the  full  confession;  now  you  know." 

She.  The  thing  is  done,  and  being  done,  must  be. 
You  cannot  hedge.  Would  you  had  talked  with  me 
Before  you  plunged.    But  there,  the  thing  is  done. 

He.  Do  not  exaggerate  the  risks  I  run. 
Right  Royal  was  a  bad  horse  in  the  past, 
A  rogue,  a  cur,  but  he  is  cured  at  last; 
For  I  was  right,  his  former  owner  wrong, 


19 


He  is  a  game  good  'chaser,  going  strong. 
He  and  my  lucky  star  may  pull  me  through. 

She.  0  grant  they  may;  but  think  what's  racing  you, 
Think  for  a  moment  what  his  chances  are 
Against  Sir  Lopez,  Soyland,  Kubbadar. 

He.  You  said  you  thought  Sir  Lopez  past  his  best. 
I  do,  myself. 

She.  But  there  are  all  the  rest. 

Peterkinooks,  Red  Ember,  Counter  Vair, 
And  then  Grey  Glory  and  the  Irish  mare. 

He.  She's  scratched.    The  rest  are  giving  me  a  stone. 
Unless  the  field  hides  something  quite  unknown 
I  stand  a  chance.    The  going  favours  me. 
The  ploughland  will  be  bogland  certainly, 
After  this  rain.    If  Royal  keeps  his  nerve, 
If  no  one  cannons  me  at  jump  or  swerve, 
I  stand  a  chance.    And  though  I  dread  to  fail, 
This  passionate  dream  that  drives  me  like  a  sail 
Runs  in  my  blood,  and  cries,  that  I  shall  win. 

20 


She.  Please  Heaven  you  may;  but  now  (for  me)  begin 
Again  the  horrors  that  I  cannot  tell, 
Horrors  that  made  my  childhood  such  a  hell, 
Watching  my  Father  near  the  gambler's  grave 
Step  after  step,  yet  impotent  to  save. 

You  do  not  know,  I  never  let  you  know, 

The  horror  of  those  days  of  long  ago 

When  Father  raced  to  ruin.    Every  night 

After  my  Mother  took  away  the  light, 

For  weeks  before  each  meeting,  I  would  see 

Horrible  horses  looking  down  on  me, 

Laughing  and  saying,  "We  shall  beat  your  Father." 

Then  when  the  meetings  came  I  used  to  gather 

Close  up  to  Mother,  and  we  used  to  pray, 

"0  God,  for  Christ's  sake,  let  him  win  to-day." 

And  then  we  had  to  watch  for  his  return, 

Craning  our  necks  to  see  if  we  could  learn, 

Before  he  entered,  what  the  week  had  been. 


Now  I  shall  look  on  such  another  scene 
Of  waiting  on  the  race-chance.    For  to-day, 


21 


rtltl^lfri  -> 


/a 


W 


rtsrv?;, 


Just  as  I  did  with  Father,  I  shall  say, 
"Yes,  he'll  be  beaten  by  a  head,  or  break 
A  stirrup  leather  at  the  wall,  or  take 
The  brook  too  slow,  and,  then,  all  will  be  lost." 

Daily,  in  mind,  I  saw  the  Winning  Post, 

The  Straight,  and  all  the  horses'  glimmering  forms 

Rushing  between  the  railings'  yelling  swarms, 

My  Father's  colours  leading.    Every  day, 

Closing  my  eyes,  I  saw  them  die  away, 

In  the  last  strides,  and  lose,  lose  by  a  neck, 

Lose  by  an  inch,  but  lose,  and  bring  the  wreck 

A  day's  march  nearer.    Now  begins  again 

The  agony  of  waiting  for  the  pain, 

The  agony  of  watching  ruin  come 

Out  of  man's  dreams  to  overwhelm  a  home. 


ffrrtfi 


Go  now,  my  dear.    Before  the  race  is  due 
We'll  meet  again,  and  then  I'll  speak  with  you. 

In  a  race-course  box  behind  the  Stand 

Right  Royal  shone  from  a  strapper's  hand. 

A  big  dark  bay  with  a  restless  tread, 

Fetlock  deep  in  a  wheat-straw  bed; 

A  noble  horse  of  a  nervy  blood, 

By  0  Mon  Roi  out  of  Rectitude. 

Something  quick  in  his  eye  and  ear 

Gave  a  hint  that  he  might  be  queer. 

In  front,  he  was  all  to  a  horseman's  mind; 

Some  thought  him  a  trifle  light  behind. 

By  two  good  points  might  his  rank  be  known, 

A  beautiful  head  and  a  Jumping  Bone. 

He  had  been  the  hope  of  Sir  Button  Budd, 
Who  bred  him  there  at  the  Fletchings  stud, 
But  the  Fletchings  jockey  had  flogged  him  cold 
In  a  narrow  thing  as  a  two-year-old. 


23 


After  that,  with  his  sulks  and  swerves, 
Dread  of  the  crowd  and  fits  of  nerves, 
Like  a  wastrel  bee  who  makes  no  honey, 
He  had  hardly  earned  his  entry  money. 

Liking  him  still,  though  he  failed  at  racing, 

Sir  Button  trained  him  for  steeple-chasing. 

He  jumped  like  a  stag,  but  his  heart  was  cowed; 

Nothing  would  make  him  face  the  crowd. 

When  he  reached  the  Straight  where  the  crowds  began 

He  would  make  no  effort  for  any  man. 

Sir  Button  sold  him,  Charles  Cothill  bought  him, 
Rode  him  to  hounds  and  soothed  and  taught  him. 
After  two  years'  care  Charles  felt  assured 
That  his  horse's  broken  heart  was  cured, 
And  the  jangled  nerves  in  tune  again. 

And  now,  as  proud  as  a  King  of  Spain, 

He  moved  in  his  box  with  a  restless  tread, 

Hjs  eyes  like  sparks  in  his  lovely  head, 

Ready  to  run  between  the  roar 

Of  the  stands  that  face  the  Straight  once  more; 
24 


Ready  to  race,  though  blown,  though  beat, 
As  long  as  his  will  could  lift  his  feet; 
Ready  to  burst  his  heart  to  pass 
Each  gasping  horse  in  that  street  of  grass. 

John  Harding  said  to  his  stable-boy: 
"Would  looks  were  deeds,  for  he  looks  a  joy. 
He's  come  on  well  in  the  last  ten  days." 
The  horse  looked  up  at  the  note  of  praise; 


25 


He  fixed  his  eye  upon  Harding's  eye, 
Then  he  put  all  thought  of  Harding  by, 
Then  his  ears  went  back  and  he  clipped  all  clean 
The  manger's  well  where  his  oats  had  been. 

John  Harding  walked  to  the  stable-yard, 
His  brow  was  worried  with  thinking  hard. 
He  thought,  "His  sire  was  a  Derby  winner, 
His  legs  are  steel,  and  he  loves  his  dinner, 
And  yet  of  old,  when  they  made  him  race, 
He  sulked  or  funked  like  a  real  disgrace; 
Now  for  man  or  horse,  I  say,  it's  plain, 
That  what  once  he's  been,  he'll  be  again. 

For  all  his  looks,  I'll  take  my  oath 
That  horse  is  a  cur,  and  slack  as  sloth. 

He'll  funk  at  a  great  big  field  like  this, 
And  the  lad  won't  cure  that  sloth  of  his. 
He  stands  no  chance,  and  yet  Bungay  says 
He's  been  backed  all  morning  a  hundred  ways. 
He  was  twenty  to  one  last  night,  by  Heaven: 
Twenty  to  one,  and  now  he's  seven. 

Well,  one  of  these  fools  whom  fortune  loves 

Has  made  up  his  mind  to  go  for  the  gloves; 

But  here's  Dick  Cappell  to  bring  me  news." 
26 


Z^EJ. 


V 

II'     '■  '  II"  ^r-^-— Mf-^ 


Dick  Cappell  came  from  a  London  Mews, 

His  fleshless  face  was  a  stretcht  skin  sheath 

For  the  narrow  pear  of  the  skull  beneath. 

He  had  cold  blue  eyes,  and  a  mouth  like  a  slit, 

With  yellow  teeth  sticking  out  from  it. 

There  was  no  red  blood  in  his  lips  or  skin, 

He'd  a  sinister,  hard,  sharp  soul  within. 

Perhaps,  the  thing  that  he  most  enjoyed 

Was  being  rude  when  he  felt  annoyed. 

He  sucked  his  cane,  he  nodded  to  John, 

He  asked,  "What's  brought  your  lambkin  on?" 


John  said,  "I  had  meant  to  ask  of  you 

Who's  backing  him,  Dick;  I  hoped  you  knew." 

Dick  said,  "Pill  Stewart  has  placed  the  money. 

I  don't  know  whose." 

John  said,  "That's  funny." 

"Why  funny?"  said  Dick;  but  John  said  naught; 

He  looked  at  the  horse's  legs  and  thought. 

Yet  at  last  he  said,  "  It  beats  me  clean, 

But  whoever  he  is,  he  must  be  green. 

There  are  eight  in  this  could  give  him  a  stone, 

And  twelve  should  beat  him  on  form  alone. 

The  lad  can  ride,  but  it's  more  than  riding 

That  will  give  the  bay  and  the  grey  a  hiding." 

27 


-«£*       -*-       il  1  ■  'I'M'rt   *1TMi1  ■■ 


Dick  sucked  his  cane  and  looked  at  the  horse 
With  "Nothing's  certain  on  Compton  Course. 
He  looks  a  peach.    Have  you  tried  him  high?" 
John  said,  "You  know  him  as  well  as  I; 
What  he  has  done  and  what  he  can  do. 
He's  been  ridden  to  hounds  this  year  or  two. 
When  last  he  was  raced,  he  made  the  running 
For  a  stable  companion  twice  at  Sunning. 
He  was  placed,  bad  third,  in  the  Blowbury  Cup, 
And  second  at  Tew  with  Kingston  up. 
He  sulked  at  Folkstone,  he  funked  at  Speen, 
He  baulked  at  the  ditch  at  Hampton  Green. 
Nick  Kingston  thought  him  a  slug  and  cur, 
'You  must  cut  his  heart  out  to  make  him  stir.' 
But  his  legs  are  iron;  he's  fine  and  fit." 


Dick  said,  "Maybe;  but  he's  got  no  grit. 

With  to-day's  big  field,  on  a  course  like  this, 

He  will  come  to  grief  with  that  funk  of  his. 

Well,  it's  queer,  to  me,  that  they've  brought  him  on. 

It's  Kubbadar's  race.    Good-morning,  John." 


F 


28 


When  Dick  had  gone  from  the  stable-yard, 

John  wrote  a  note  on  a  racing-card. 

He  said,  "Since  Stewart  has  placed  the  com., 

It's  Mr.  Cothill  he  got  it  from. 

Now  why  should  that  nice  young  man  go  blind 

And  back  his  horse?    Has  he  lost  his  mind? 

Such  a  nice  young  fellow,  so  civil-spoken, 

Should  have  more  sense  than  to  get  him  broken, 

For  broken  he'll  be  as  sure  as  eggs 

If  he  puts  his  money  on  horses'  legs. 

And  to  trust  to  this,  who's  a  nice  old  thing, 

But  can  no  more  win  than  a  cow  can  sing. 

Well,  they  say  that  wisdom  is  dearly  bought, 

A  world  of  pain  for  a  want  of  thought; 

But  why  should  he  back  what  stands  no  chance, 

No  more  than  the  Rowley  Mile's  in  France? 

Why  didn't  he  talk  of  it  first  with  me? 

Well,  Lord,  we  trainers  can  let  it  be, 

Why  can't  these  owners  abstain  the  same? 

It  can't  be  aught  but  a  losing  game. 

He'll  finish  ninth;  he'll  be  forced  to  sell 

His  horse,  his  stud,  and  his  home  as  well; 

He'll  lose  his  lady,  and  all  for  this — 

A  daft  belief  in  that  horse  of  his. 

29 


It's  nothing  to  me,  a  man  might  say, 
That  a  rich  young  fool  should  be  cast  away, 
Though  what  he  does  with  his  own,  in  fine, 
Is  certainly  no  concern  of  mine. 
I'm  paid  to  see  that  his  horse  is  fit. 
I  can't  engage  for  an  owner's  wit. 
For  the  heart  of  a  man  may  love  his  brother, 
But  who  can  be  wise  to  save  another? 
Souls  are  our  own  to  save  from  burning, 
We  must  all  learn  how,  and  pay  for  learning. 
And  now,  by  the  clock,  that  bell  that  went 
Was  the  Saddling  Bell  for  the  first  event. 

Since  the  time  comes  close,  it  will  save  some  swearing 
If  we  get  beforehand,  and  start  preparing." 


3° 


The  roads  were  filled  with  a  drifting  crowd, 

Many  mouth-organs  droned  aloud, 

A  couple  of  lads  in  scarlet  hats, 

Yellow  trousers  and  purple  spats, 

Dragged  their  banjos,  wearily  eyeing 

Passing  brakes  full  of  sportsmen  Hi-ing. 

Then  with  a  long  horn  blowing  a  glory 

Came  the  four-in-hand  of  the  young  Lord  Tory, 

The  young  Lord's  eyes  on  his  leaders'  ears 

And  the  blood-like  team  going  by  to  cheers. 

Then  in  a  brake  came  cheerers  and  hooters 

Peppering  folk  from  tin  peashooters; 

The  Green  Man's  Friendly  in  bright  mauve  caps 

Followed  fast  in  the  Green  Man's  traps. 

The  crowd  made  way  for  the  traps  to  pass, 

Then  a  drum  beat  up  with  a  blare  of  brass, 

Medical  students  smart  as  paint 

Sang  gay  songs  of  a  sad  complaint. 


3* 


A  wolf-eyed  man  who  carried  a  kipe 

Whistled  as  shrill  as  a  man  could  pipe, 

Then  paused  and  grinned  with  his  gaps  of  teeth 

Crying,  "Here's  your  colours  for  Compton  Heath, 

All  the  colours  of  all  the  starters, 

For  gentlemen's  ties  and  ladies'  garters; 

Here  you  have  them,  penny  a  pin, 

Buy  your  colours  and  see  them  win. 

Here  you  have  them,  the  favourites'  own, 

Sir  Lopez'  colours,  the  blue- white  roan, 

For  all  the  races  and  what'll  win  'em. 

Real  jockey's  silk  with  a  pin  to  pin  'em." 


Out  of  his  kipe  he  sold  to  many 

Bright  silk  buttons  and  charged  a  penny. 

A  bookie  walked  with  his  clerk  beside  him, 

His  stool  on  his  shoulders  seemed  to  ride  him, 

His  white  top-hat  bore  a  sign  which  ran 

"Your  old  pal  Bunkie  the  working  man." 

His  clothes  were  a  check  of  three-inch  squares, 

"Bright  brown  and  fawn  with  the  pearls  in  pairs." 

Double  pearl  buttons  ran  down  the  side, 

The  knees  were  tight  and  the  ankles  wide. 

A  bright,  thick  chain  made  of  discs  of  tin 

Secured  a  board  from  his  waist  to  chin. 
32 


33 


The  men  in  the  brakes  that  passed  at  trot 
Read  "First  past  Post"  and  "Run  or  Not." 
The  bookie's  face  was  an  angry  red, 
His  eyes  seemed  rolling  inside  his  head. 
His  clerk  was  a  lean  man,  secret,  spare, 
With  thin  lips  knowing  and  damp  black  hair. 
A  big  black  bag  much  weathered  with  rain 
Hung  around  his  neck  by  a  leathered  chain. 

Seven  linked  dancers  singing  a  song 

Bowed  and  kicked  as  they  danced  along, 

The  middleman  thrust  and  pulled  and  squeezed 

A  concertina  to  tunes  that  pleased. 

After  them,  honking,  with  Hey,  Hey,  Hey, 

Came  drivers  thrusting  to  clear  the  way, 

Drivers  vexed  by  the  concertina, 

Saying  "Go,  bury  that  d d  hyena." 

Drivers  dusty  with  wind-red  faces 
Leaning  out  of  their  driving-places. 
The  dancers  mocked  them  and  called  them  names : 
"Look  at  our  butler,"    "Drive  on,  James." 
The  cars  drove  past  and  the  dust  rose  after, 
Little  boys  chased  them  yelling  with  laughter, 
Clambering  on  them  when  they  slowed 
For  a  dirty  ride  down  a  perch  of  road. 
34 


A  dark  green  car  with  a  smart  drab  lining 
Passed  with  a  stately  pair  reclining; 
Peering  walkers  standing  aside 
Saw  Soyland's  owner  pass  with  his  bride, 
Young  Sir  Eustace,  biting  his  lip, 
Pressing  his  chin  with  his  finger-tip. 
Nerves  on  edge,  as  he  could  not  choose, 
From  thought  of  the  bets  he  stood  to  lose. 
His  lady,  a  beauty  whom  thought  made  pale, 
Prayed  from  fear  that  the  horse  might  fail. 
A  bright  brass  rod  on  the  motor's  bonnet 
Carried  her  husband's  colours  on  it, 
Scarlet  spots  on  a  field  of  cream : 
She  stared  ahead  in  a  kind  of  dream. 

Then  came  cabs  from  the  railway  stations, 
Carrying  men  from  all  the  nations : 
Olive-skinned  French  with  clipped  moustaches, 
Almond-eyed  like  Paris  apaches. 
Rosy  French  with  their  faces  shining 
From  joy  of  living  and  love  of  dining. 
Silent  Spaniards,  merry  Italians, 
Nobles,  commoners,  saints,  rapscallions; 
Russians  tense  with  the  quest  of  truth 
That  maddens  manhood  and  saddens  youth; 

35 


A^M^i^^^ 


Learned  Norwegians  hale  and  limber, 

Brown  from  the  barques  new  in  with  timber. 

Oregon  men  of  six  feet  seven 

With  backs  from  Atlas  and  hearts  from  Heaven. 

Orleans  Creoles,  ready  for  duels, 

Their  delicate  ears  with  scarlet  jewels, 

Green  silk  handkerchiefs  round  their  throats, 

In  from  sea  with  the  cotton-boats. 

Portuguese  and  Brazilianos, 

Men  from  the  mountains,  men  from  the  Llanos, 

Men  from  the  Pampas,  men  from  the  Sierras, 

Men  from  the  mines  of  the  Cordilleras, 

Men  from  the  flats  of  the  tropic  mud 

Where  the  butterfly  glints  his  mail  with  blood ; 

Men  from  the  pass  where  day  by  day 

The  sun's  heat  scales  the  rocks  away; 

Men  from  the  hills  where  night  by  night 

The  sheep-bells  give  the  heart  delight; 

Indians,  Lascars  and  Bengalese, 

Greeks  from  the  mainland,  Greeks  from  the  seas; 

All  kinds  of  bodies,  all  kinds  of  faces, 

All  were  coming  to  see  the  races, 

Coming  to  see  Sir  Lopez  run 

And  watch  the  English  having  their  fun. 


36 


The  Carib  boxer  from  Hispaniola 

Wore  a  rose  in  his  tilted  bowler; 

He  drove  a  car  with  a  yellow  panel, 

He  went  full  speed  and  he  drove  a  channel. 

Then  came  dog-carts  and  traps  and  wagons 
With  hampers  of  lunches,  pies  and  flagons, 
Bucks  from  city  and  flash  young  bloods 
With  vests  "cut  saucy"  to  show  their  studs, 
Hawbuck  Towler  and  Spicey  Random 
Tooled  in  style  in  a  rakish  tandem. 
Blood  Dick  Haggit  and  Bertie  Askins 
Had  dancers'  skirts  on  their  horses'  gaskins; 
Crash  Pete  Snounce  with  that  girl  of  Dowser's 
Drove  a  horse  that  was  wearing  trousers; 
The  wagonette  from  The  Old  Pier  Head 
Drove  to  the  tune,  "My  Monkey's  Dead." 

The  costermongers  as  smart  as  sparrows 
Brought  their  wives  in  their  donkey  barrows. 
The  clean-legged  donkeys,  clever  and  cunning, 
Their  ears  cocked  forward,  their  neat  feet  running, 
Their  carts  and  harness  flapping  with  flags, 
Were  bright  as  heralds  and  proud  as  stags. 
And  there  in  pride  in  the  flapping  banners 

37 


Were  the  costers'  selves  in  blue  bandannas, 

And  the  costers'  wives  in  feathers  curling, 

And  their  sons,  with  their  sweet  mouth-organs  skirling. 

And  from  midst  of  the  road  to  the  roadside  shifting 

The  crowd  of  the  world  on  foot  went  drifting, 

Standing  aside  on  the  trodden  grass 

To  chaff  as  they  let  the  traffic  pass. 

Then  back  they  flooded,  singing  and  cheering, 

Plodding  forward  and  disappearing, 

Up  to  the  course  to  take  their  places, 

To  lunch  and  gamble  and  see  the  races. 

The  great  Grand  Stand,  made  grey  by  the  weather, 

Flaunted  colours  that  tugged  their  tether; 

Tier  upon  tier  the  wooden  seats 

Were  packed  as  full  as  the  London  streets 

When  the  King  and  Queen  go  by  in  state. 

Click,  click,  clack,  went  the  turnstile  gate; 
The  orange-sellers  cried  "Fat  and  fine 
Seville  oranges,  sweet,  like  wine: 
38 


Twopence  apiece,  all  juice,  all  juice." 

The  pea  and  the  thumble  caught  their  goose. 

Two  white-faced  lurchers,  not  over-clean, 

Urged  the  passers  to  "spot  the  queen." 

They  flicked  three  cards  that  the  world  might  choose, 

They  cried,  "All  prizes.    You  cannot  lose. 

Come,  pick  the  lady.    Only  a  shilling." 

One  of  their  friends  cried  out,  "I'm  willing." 

He  "picked  the  lady"  and  took  his  pay, 

And  he  cried,  "It's  giving  money  away." 

Men  came  yelling  "Cards  of  the  races"; 

Men  hawked  matches  and  studs  and  laces; 

Gipsy-women  in  green  shawls  dizened 

Read  girls'  fortunes  with  eyes  that  glistened; 

Negro  minstrels  on  banjos  strumming 

Sang  at  the  stiles  to  people  coming. 


Like  glistening  beetles  clustered  close, 
The  myriad  motors  parked  in  rows, 
The  bonnets  flashed,  and  the  brass  did  clink, 
As  the  drivers  poured  their  motors  drink. 


39 


-ffrrti 


The  March  wind  blew  the  smell  of  the  crowd, 
All  men  there  seemed  crying  aloud, 
But  over  the  noise  a  louder  roar 
Broke,  as  the  wave  that  bursts  on  shore 
Drowns  the  roar  of  the  wave  that  comes, 
So  this  roar  rose  on  the  lesser  hums, 
"I  back  the  Field.    I  back  the  Field." 


Man  who  lives  under  sentence  sealed, 
Tragical  man,  who  has  but  breath 
For  few  brief  years  as  he  goes  to  death, 
Tragical  man  by  strange  winds  blown 
To  live  in  crowds  ere  he  die  alone. 


;r 


'•*■  I 


jaa; 


Came  in  his  jovial  thousands  massing 
To  see  Life  moving  and  beauty  passing. 

They  sucked  their  fruit  in  the  wooden  tiers 
And  flung  the  skins  at  the  passers'  ears; 
Drumming  their  heels  on  the  planks  below, 
They  sang  of  Dolly  of  Idaho. 

Past,  like  a  flash,  the  first  race  went. 

The  time  drew  by  to  the  great  event. 

At  a  quarter  to  three  the  big  bell  pealed; 
The  horses  trooped  to  the  Saddling  Field. 
Covered  in  clothing,  horse  and  mare 
Pricked  their  ears  at  the  people  there; 
Some  showed  devil,  and  some,  composure, 
As  they  trod  their  way  to  the  great  enclosure. 

When  the  clock  struck  three  and  the  men  weighed  out, 
Charles  Co  thill  shook,  though  his  heart  was  stout. 
The  thought  of  his  bets,  so  gaily  laid, 
Seemed  a  stone  the  more  when  he  sat  and  weighed. 

As  he  swung  in  the  scales  and  nursed  his  saddle, 
It  seemed  to  him  that  his  brains  would  addle ; 
For  now  that  the  plunger  reached  the  brink, 
The  risk  was  more  than  he  liked  to  think. 

41 


-Tar-v.y.rQ  f  !      9,  *&■*         jjgfi 


%c 


5 


In  ten  more  minutes  his  future  life, 
His  hopes  of  home  with  his  chosen  wife, 
Would  all  depend  on  a  doubtful  horse 
In  a  crowded  field  over  Compton  Course. 

He  had  backed  Right  Royal  for  all  he  owned. 
At  thought  of  his  want  of  sense  he  groaned. 
"All  for  a  dream  of  the  night,"  he  thought. 
He  was  right  for  weight  at  eleven  naught. 

Then  Em's  sweet  face  rose  up  in  his  brain, 
He  cursed  his  will  that  had  dealt  her  pain: 
To  hurt  sweet  Emmy  and  lose  her  love 
Was  madman's  folly  by  all  above. 

He  saw  too  well  as  he  crossed  the  yard 

That  his  madman's  plunge  had  borne  her  hard. 

"To  wring  sweet  Em  like  her  drunken  father, 

I'd  fall  at  the  Pitch  and  end  it  rather. 

Oh,  I  hope,  hope,  hope  that  her  golden  heart 

Will  give  me  a  word  before  I  start. 

If  I  thought  our  love  should  have  come  to  wreck, 

I'd  pull  Right  Royal  and  break  my  neck, 

And  Monkery's  shoe  might  kick  my  brains  out, 

That  my  own  heart's  blood  might  wash  my  stains  out. 

But  even  if  Emmy,  my  sweet,  forgive, 
42 


arisa 


I'm  a  ruined  man,  so  I  need  not  live, 

For  I've  backed  my  horse  with  my  all,  by  Heaven, 

To  be  first  in  a  field  of  thirty-seven, 

And  good  as  he  is,  the  dream's  a  lie." 

He  saw  no  hope  but  to  fall  and  die. 

As  he  left  the  room  for  the  Saddling  Paddock 
He  looked  as  white  as  the  flesh  of  haddock. 

But  Love,  all  seeing,  though  painted  blind, 
Makes  wisdom  live  in  a  woman's  mind. 
His  love  knew  well  from  her  own  heart's  bleeding 
The  word  of  help  that  her  man  was  needing; 
And  there  she  stood  with  her  eyes  most  bright, 
Ready  to  cheer  her  heart's  delight. 

She  said,  "My  darling,  I  feel  so  proud 
To  see  you  followed  by  all  the  crowd; 
And  I  shall  be  proud  as  I  see  you  win. 

Right  Royal,  Soyland  and  Peterkin 

Are  the  three  I  pick,  first,  second,  third. 

And  oh,  now  listen  to  what  I  heard. 

Just  now  in  the  park  Sir  Norman  Cooking 

Said,  'Harding,  how  well  Right  Royal's  looking. 

43 


They've  brought  him  on  in  the  ring,  they  say.* 
John  said,  'Sir  Norman,  to-day's  his  day.' 
And  Sir  Norman  said,  'If  I  had  a  monkey 
I'd  put  it  on  yours,  for  he  looks  so  spunky.' 

So  you  see  that  the  experts  think  as  you. 

Now,  my  own,  own,  own,  may  your  dream  come  true, 

As  I  know  it  will,  as  I  know  it  must; 

You  have  all  my  prayer  and  my  love  and  trust. 


*?- 


44 


Oh,  one  thing  more  that  Sir  Norman  said, 
'A  lot  of  money  has  just  been  laid 
On  the  mare  Gavotte  that  no  one  knows/ 
He  said  '  She's  small,  but,  my  word,  she  goes. 
Since  she  bears  no  weight,  if  she  only  jumps, 
She'll  put  these  cracks  to  their  ace  of  trumps. 
But,'  he  said,  'she's  slight  for  a  course  like  this.' 

That's  all  my  gossip,  so  there  it  is. 

Dear,  reckon  the  words  I  spoke  unspoken, 
I  failed  in  love  and  my  heart  is  broken. 

Now  I  go  to  my  place  to  blush  with  pride 
As  the  people  talk  of  how  well  you  ride; 
I  mean  to  shout  like  a  bosun's  mate 
When  I  see  you  lead  coming  up  the  Straight. 
Now  may  all  God's  help  be  with  you,  dear." 

"Well,  bless  you,  Em,  for  your  words  of  cheer. 
And  now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 
Good-bye. 

Now,  Harding,  we'd  best  begin." 

At  buckle  and  billet  their  fingers  wrought, 
Till  the  sheets  were  home  and  the  bowlines  taut. 
As  he  knotted  the  reins  and  took  his  stand 
The  horse's  soul  came  into  his  hand, 

45 


And  up  from  the  mouth  that  held  the  steel 

Came  an  innermost  word,  half  thought,  half  feel, 

"My  day  to-day,  0  master,  0  master; 

None  shall  jump  cleaner,  none  shall  go  faster, 

Call  till  you  kill  me,  for  I'll  obey; 

It's  my  day  to-day,  it's  my  day  to-day." 

In  a  second  more  he  had  found  his  seat, 
And  the  standers-by  jumped  clear  of  feet, 


MBMmShS 


For  the  big  dark  bay  all  fire  and  fettle 
Had  his  blood  in  a  dance  to  show  his  mettle. 
Charles  soothed  him  down  till  his  tricks  were  gone; 
Then  he  leaned  for  a  final  word  from  John. 

John  Harding's  face  was  alert  and  grim, 

From  under  his  hand  he  talked  to  him. 

"It's  none  of  my  business,  sir,"  he  said, 

"What  you  stand  to  win  or  the  bets  you've  made, 

But  the  rumour  goes  that  you've  backed  your  horse. 

Now  you  need  no  telling  of  Compton  Course. 
It's  a  dangerous  course  at  the  best  of  times, 
But  on  days  like  this  some  jumps  are  crimes; 
With  a  field  like  this,  nigh  forty  starting, 
After  one  time  round  it'll  need  re-charting. 

Now  think  it  a  hunt,  the  first  time  round; 
Don't  think  too  much  about  losing  ground, 
Lie  out  of  your  ground,  for  sure  as  trumps 
There'll  be  people  killed  in  the  first  three  jumps. 
The  second  time  round,  pipe  hands  for  boarding, 
You  can  see  what's  doing  and  act  according. 

Now  your  horse  is  a  slug  and  a  sulker  too, 
Your  way  with  the  horse  I  leave  to  you; 
But,  sir,  you  watch  for  these  jokers'  tricks 

47 


And  watch  that  devil  on  number  six; 

There's  nothing  he  likes  like  playing  it  low, 

What  a  horse  mayn't  like  or  a  man  mayn't  know, 

And  what  they  love  when  they  race  a  toff 

Is  to  flurry  his  horse  at  taking  off. 

The  ways  of  the  crook  are  hard  to  learn. 

Now  watch  that  fence  at  the  outer  turn; 

It  looks  so  slight  but  it's  highly  like 

That  it's  killed  more  men  than  the  Dyers'  Dyke. 

It's  down  in  a  dip  and  you  turn  to  take  it, 

And  men  in  a  bunch,  just  there,  mistake  it. 

But  well  to  the  right,  it's  firmer  ground, 

And  the  quick  way  there  is  the  long  way  round. 

In  Cannibal's  year,  in  just  this  weather, 

There  were  five  came  down  at  that  fence  together. 

I  called  it  murder,  not  riding  races. 


You've  nothing  to  fear  from  the  other  places; 

Your  horse  can  jump. 

Now  I'll  say  no  more. 

They  say  you're  on,  as  I  said  before. 
48 


It's  none  of  my  business,  sir,  but  still 
I  would  like  to  say  that  I  hope  you  will. 
Sir,  I  wish  you  luck.    When  we  two  next  meet 
I  hope  to  hear  how  you  had  them  beat." 

Charles  Cothill  nodded  with,  "Thank  you,  John. 
We'll  try;  and,  oh,  you're  a  thousand  on." 

He  heard  John's  thanks,  but  knew  at  a  glance 
That  John  was  sure  that  he  stood  no  chance. 

He  turned  Right  Royal,  he  drew  deep  breath 
With  the  thought,  "Now  for  it;  a  ride  to  death. 
Now  come,  my  beauty,  for  dear  Em's  sake, 
And  if  come  you  can't,  may  our  necks  both  break." 

And  there  to  his  front,  with  their  riders  stooping 
For  the  final  word,  were  the  racers  trooping. 

Out  at  the  gate  to  cheers  and  banter 
They  paced  in  pride  to  begin  their  canter. 

49 


Muscatel  with  the  big  white  star, 
The  roan  Red  Ember,  and  Kubbadar, 
Kubbadar  with  his  teeth  bared  yellow 
At  the  Dakkanese,  his  stable-fellow. 
Then  Forward-Ho,  then  a  chestnut  weed, 
Skysail,  slight,  with  a  turn  of  speed. 
The  n^at  Gavotte  under  black  and  coral, 
Tb°n  the  Mutineer,  Lord  Leybourne's  sorrel, 
Ndtuna  mincing,  Syringa  sidling, 
Stormalong  fighting  to  break  his  bridling, 
Thunderbolt  dancing  with  raw  nerves  quick, 
Trying  a  savage  at  Bitter  Dick. 
The  Ranger  (winner  three  years  before), 
Now  old,  but  ready  for  one  try  more; 
Hadrian;  Thankful;  the  stable-cronies, 
Peterkinooks  and  Dear  Adonis; 
The  flashing  Rocket,  with  taking  action; 
Exception,  backed  by  the  Tencombe  faction; 
Old  Sir  Francis  and  young  King  Tony, 
And  gaunt  Path  Finder  with  great  hips  bony. 

At  this,  he  rode  through  the  open  gate 
Into  the  course  to  try  his  fate. 

He  heard  a  roar  from  a  moving  crowd; 
Right  Royal  kindled  and  cried  aloud. 
50 


There  was  the  course,  stand,  rail  and  pen, 
Peopled  with  seventy  thousand  men; 
Seventy  thousand  faces  staring, 
Carriages  parked,  a  brass  band  blaring: 
Over  the  stand  the  flags  in  billows 
Bent  their  poles  like  the  wands  of  willows. 
All  men  there  seemed  trying  to  bawl, 
Yet  a  few  great  voices  topped  them  all : 
"  I  back  the  Field !    I  back  the  Field ! " 

Right  Royal  trembled  with  pride  and  squealed. 

Charles  Cothill  smiled  with  relief  to  find 
This  roaring  crowd  to  his  horse's  mind. 


He  passed  the  stand  where  his  lady  stood, 
His  nerves  were  tense  to  the  multitude; 
His  blood  beat  hard  and  his  eyes  grew  dim 
As  he  knew  that  some  were  cheering  him. 
Then,  as  he  turned,  at  his  pace's  end 
There  came  a  roar  as  when  floods  descend. 
All  down  the  Straight  from  the  crowded  stands 
Came  the  yells  of  voices  and  clap  of  hands, 
For  with  bright  bay  beauty  that  shone  like  flame 
The  favourite  horse,  Sir  Lopez,  came. 


5i 


His  beautiful  hips  and  splendid  shoulders 
And  power  of  stride  moved  all  beholders, 
Moved  non-betters  to  try  to  bet 
On  that  favourite  horse  not  beaten  yet. 
With  glory  of  power  and  speed  he  strode 
To  a  sea  of  cheering  that  moved  and  flowed 
And  followed  and  heaped  and  burst  like  storm 
From  the  joy  of  men  in  the  perfect  form: 
Cheers  followed  his  path  both  sides  the  course. 

Charles  Cothill  sighed  when  he  saw  that  horse. 


52 


The  cheering  died,  then  a  burst  of  clapping 
Met  Soyland's  coming  all  bright  from  strapping, 
A  big  dark  brown  who  was  booted  thick 
Lest  one  of  the  jumps  should  make  him  click. 
He  moved  very  big,  he'd  a  head  like  a  fiddle, 
He  seemed  all  ends  without  any  middle, 
But  ill  as  he  looked,  that  outcast  racer 
Was  a  rare  good  horse  and  a  perfect  'chaser. 


Then  The  Ghost  came  on,  then  Meringue,  the  bay, 

Then  proud  Grey  Glory,  the  dapple-grey ; 

The  splendid  grey  brought  a  burst  of  cheers. 

Then  Cimmeroon,  who  had  tried  for  years 

And  had  thrice  been  placed  and  had  once  been  fourth, 

Came  trying  again  the  proverb's  worth. 

Then  again,  like  a  wave  as  it  runs  a  pier, 
On  and  on,  unbroken,  there  came  a  cheer 
As  Monkery,  black  as  a  collier-barge, 
Trod  sideways,  bickering,  taking  charge. 
Cross-Molin,  from  the  Blowbury,  followed, 
Lucky  Shot  skipped,  Coranto  wallowed, 
Then  Counter  Vair,  the  declared-to-win, 
Stable-fellow  of  Cross-Molin; 
Culverin  last,  with  Cannonade, 
Formed  rearguard  to  the  grand  parade. 

And  now,  as  they  turned  to  go  to  post, 
The  Skysail  calfishly  barged  The  Ghost, 
The  Ghost  lashed  out  with  a  bitter  knock 
On  the  tender  muscle  of  SkysaiPs  hock, 
And  Skysail's  hope  of  that  splendid  hour 
Was  cut  off  short  like  a  summer  flower. 
From  the  cantering  crowd  he  limped  apart 
Back  to  the  Paddock  and  did  not  start. 
54 


As  they  cantered  down,  Charles  Cothill's  mind 
Was  filled  with  joy  that  his  horse  went  kind; 
He  showed  no  sulks,  no  sloth,  no  fear, 
But  leant  on  his  rein  and  pricked  his  ear. 
They  lined  themselves  at  the  Post  to  start, 
Charles  took  his  place  with  a  thumping  heart. 

Excitement  running  in  waves  took  hold, 
His  teeth  were  chattered,  his  hands  were  cold, 
His  joy  to  be  there  was  mixed  with  dread 
To  be  left  at  Post  when  they  shot  ahead. 
The  horses  sparred  as  though  drunk  with  wine, 
They  bickered  and  snatched  at  taking  line. 

Then  a  grey-haired  man  with  a  hawk-like  face 

Read  from  a  list  each  rider's  place. 

Sitting  astride  his  pommely  hack, 

He  ordered  them  up  or  sent  them  back; 

He  bade  them  heed  that  they  jump  their  nags 

Over  every  jump  between  the  flags. 

Here  Kubbadar,  who  was  pulling  double, 

Went  sideways,  kicking  and  raising  trouble, 

Monkery  seconded,  kicking  and  biting, 

Thunderbolt  followed  by  starting  fighting. 

The  starter  eyed  them  and  gave  the  order 
That  the  three  wild  horses  keep  the  border, 

55 


With  men  to  hold  them  to  keep  them  quiet. 
Boys  from  the  stables  stopped  their  riot. 
Out  of  the  line  to  the  edge  of  the  field 
The  three  wild  biters  and  kickers  wheeled; 
Then  the  rest  edged  up  and  pawed  and  bickered, 
Reached  at  their  reins  and  snatched  and  snickered, 
Flung  white  foam  as  they  stamped  their  hate 
Of  passionate  blood  compelled  to  wait. 


cr. 


56 


Then  the  starter  shouted  to  Charles,  "  Good  heaven, 

This  isn't  a  circus,  you  on  Seven." 

For  Royal  squirmed  like  a  box  of  tricks 

And  Coranto's  rider,  the  number  Six, 

Cursed  at  Charles  for  a  green  young  fool 

Who  ought  to  be  at  a  riding  school. 

After  a  minute  of  swerves  and  shoving, 

A  line  like  a  half -moon  started  moving; 

Then  Rocket  and  Soyland  leaped  to  stride, 

To  be  pulled  up  short  and  wheeled  to  side. 

Then  the  trickier  riders  started  thrusting, 

Judging  the  starter's  mind  too  trusting; 

But  the  starter  said,  "You  know  quite  clearly 

That  isn't  allowed;  though  you'd  like  it  dearly." 

Then  Cannonade  made  a  sideways  bolt 

That  gave  Exception  an  ugly  jolt. 

Then  the  line,  reformed,  broke  all  to  pieces. 

Then  the  line  reforms,  and  the  tumult  ceases. 
Each  man  sits  tense  though  his  racer  dances; 
In  a  slow,  jerked  walk  the  line  advances. 

And  then  in  a  flash,  more  felt  than  seen, 
The  flag  shot  down  and  the  course  showed  green, 
And  the  line  surged  forwards  and  all  that  glory 
Of  speed  was  sweeping  to  make  a  story. 

57 


One  second  before,  Charles  CothilPs  mind 

Had  been  filled  with  fear  to  be  left  behind, 

But  now  with  a  rush,  as  when  hounds  leave  cover, 

The  line  broke  up  and  his  fear  was  over. 

A  glimmer  of  bay  behind  The  Ghost 

Showed  Dear  Adonis  still  there  at  post. 

Out  to  the  left,  a  joy  to  his  backer, 

Kubbadar  led  the  field  a  cracker, 

The  thunder  of  horses,  all  fit  and  foaming, 

Made  the  blood  not  care  whether  death  were  coming. 

A  glimmer  of  silks,  blue,  white,  green,  red, 

Flashed  into  his  eye  and  went  ahead; 

Then  hoof-casts  scattered,  then  rushing  horses 

Passed  at  his  side  with  all  their  forces. 

His  blood  leapt  up,  but  his  mind  said  "No, 

Steady,  my  darling,  slow,  go  slow. 

In  the  first  time  round  this  ride's  a  hunt." 

The  Turk's  Grave  Fence  made  a  line  in  front. 


Long  years  before,  when  the  race  began, 
That  first  of  the  jumps  had  maimed  a  man; 
His  horse,  the  Turk,  had  been  killed  and  buried 
There  in  the  ditch  by  horse-hoofs  herried; 
And  over  the  poor  Turk's  bones  at  pace 
Now,  every  year,  there  goes  the  race, 
And  many  a  man  makes  doctor's  work 
At  the  thorn-bound  ditch  that  hides  the  Turk, 
And  every  man  as  he  rides  that  course 
Thinks,  there,  of  the  Turk,  that  good  old  horse. 

The  thick  thorn-fence  stands  five  feet  high, 

With  a  ditch  beyond  unseen  by  eye, 

Which  a  horse  must  guess  from  his  urgent  rider 

Pressing  him  there  to  jump  it  wider. 

And  being  so  near  both  Stand  and  Post, 

Out  of  all  the  jumps  men  haunt  it  most, 

And  there,  with  the  crowd,  and  the  undulled  nerves, 

The  old  horse  balks  and  the  young  horse  swerves, 

And  the  good  horse  falls  with  the  bad  on  top 

And  beautiful  boldness  comes  to  stop. 

Charles  saw  the  rush  of  the  leading  black, 
And  the  forehands  lift  and  the  men  sway  back; 


59 


He  steadied  his  horse,  then  with  crash  and  crying 
The  top  of  the  Turk's  Grave  Fence  went  flying. 
Round  in  a  flash,  refusing  danger, 
Came  the  Lucky  Shot  right  into  Ranger; 
Ranger  swerving  knocked  Bitter  Dick, 
Who  blundered  at  it  and  leaped  too  quick; 
Then  crash  went  blackthorn  as  Bitter  Dick  fell, 
Meringue  jumped  on  him  and  rolled  as  well. 
As  Charles  got  over  he  splashed  the  dirt 
Of  the  poor  Turk's  grave  on  two  men  hurt. 

Right  Royal  landed.    With  cheers  and  laughter 

Some  horses  passed  him  and  some  came  after; 

A  fine  brown  horse  strode  up  beside  him, 

It  was  Thankful  running  with  none  to  ride  him; 

Thankful's  rider,  dizzy  and  sick, 

Lay  in  the  mud  by  Bitter  Dick. 

In  front  was  the  curving  street  of  Course, 

Barred  black  by  the  leaps  unsmashed  by  horse. 

A  cloud  blew  by  and  the  sun  shone  bright, 

Showing  the  guard-rails  gleaming  white. 

Little  red  flags,  that  gusts  blew  tense, 

Streamed  to  the  wind  at  each  black  fence. 
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And  smiting  the  turf  to  clods  that  scattered 

Was  the  rush  of  the  race,  the  thing  that  mattered, 

A  tide  of  horses  in  fury  flowing, 

Beauty  of  speed  in  glory  going, 

Kubbadar  pulling,  romping  first, 

Like  a  big  black  fox  that  had  made  his  burst. 

And  away  and  away  and  away  they  went, 
A  visible  song  of  what  life  meant. 
Living  in  houses,  sleeping  in  bed, 
Going  to  business,  all  seemed  dead, 
Dead  as  death  to  that  rush  in  strife, 
Pulse  for  pulse  with  the  heart  of  life. 

"For  to  all,"  Charles  thought,  "when  the  blood  beats  high 
Comes  the  glimpse  of  that  which  may  not  die; 
When  the  world  is  stilled,  when  the  wanting  dwindles, 
When  the  mind  takes  light  and  the  spirit  kindles, 
One  stands  on  a  peak  of  this  old  earth." 

Charles  eyed  his  horses  and  sang  with  mirth. 
What  of  this  world  that  spins  through  space? 
Wich  red  blood  running  he  rode  a  race, 
The  beast's  red  spirit  was  one  with  his, 
Emulous  and  in  ecstasies; 

61 


-JZ 





Joy  that  from  heart  to  wild  heart  passes 

In  the  wild  things  going  through  the  grasses; 

In  the  hares  in  the  corn,  in  shy  gazelles 

Running  the  sand  where  no  man  dwells; 

In  horses  scared  at  the  prairie  spring; 

In  the  dun  deer  noiseless,  hurrying; 

In  fish  in  the  dimness  scarcely  seen, 

Save  as  shadows  shooting  in  a  shaking  green; 

In  birds  in  the  air,  neck-straining,  swift, 

Wing  touching  wing  while  no  wings  shift, 

Seen  by  none,  but  when  stars  appear 

A  reaper  wandering  home  may  hear 

A  sigh  aloft  where  the  stars  are  dim, 

Then  a  great  rush  going  over  him: 

This  was  his;  it  had  linked  him  close 

To  the  force  by  which  the  comet  goes, 

With  the  rein  none  sees,  with  the  lash  none  feels, 

But  with  fire-mane  tossing  and  flashing  heels. 

The  roar  of  the  race-course  died  behind  them, 
In  front  were  their  Fates,  they  rode  to  find  them, 
With  the  wills  of  men,  with  the  strengths  of  horses, 
They  dared  the  minute  with  all  their  forces. 


62 


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PART  II 


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PART  II 

Still  pulling  double,  black  Kubbadar  led, 
Pulling  his  rider  half  over  his  head; 
Soyland's  cream  jacket  was  spotted  with  red, 
Spotted  with  dirt  from  the  rush  of  their  tread. 

Bright  bay  Sir  Lopez,  the  loveliest  there, 
Galloped  at  ease  as  though  taking  the  air, 
Well  in  his  compass  with  plenty  to  spare. 
Gavotte  and  The  Ghost  and  the  brown  Counter  Vair 
Followed  him  close  with  Syringa  the  mare, 


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67 


And  the  roan  horse  Red  Ember,  who  went  like  a  hare, 
And  Forward-Ho  bolting,  though  his  rider  did  swear. 

Keeping  this  order,  they  reached  the  next  fence, 

Which  was  living  plashed  blackthorn  with  gorse-toppings 

dense; 
In  the  gloom  of  its  darkness  it  loomed  up  immense. 
And  Forward-Ho's  glory  had  conquered  his  sense 
And  he  rushed  it,  not  rising,  and  never  went  thence. 
And  down  in  the  ditch  where  the  gorse-spikes  were 

scattered 
That  bright  chestnut's  soul  from  his  body  was  shattered, 
And  his  rider  shed  tears  on  the  dear  head  all  spattered. 

King  Tony  came  down,  but  got  up  with  a  stumble, 

His  rider  went  sideways,  but  knew  how  to  tumble, 

And  got  up  and  remounted,  though  the  pain  made  him 

humble, 
And  he  rode  fifty  yards  and  then  stopped  in  a  fumble. 

With  a  rush  and  a  crashing  Right  Royal  went  over 
With  the  stride  of  a  stalwart  and  the  blood  of  a  lover, 
He  landed  on  stubble  now  pushing  with  clover, 

And  just  as  he  landed,  the  March  sun  shone  bright 

And  the  blue  sky  showed  flamelike  and  the  dun  clouds 

turned  white; 
68 


69 


The  little  larks  panted  aloft  their  delight, 
Trembling  and  singing  as  though  one  with  the  light. 

And  Charles,  as  he  rode,  felt  the  joy  of  their  singing, 
While  over  the  clover  the  horses  went  stringing, 
And  up  from  Right  Royal  the  message  came  winging, 
"It  is  my  day  to-day,  though  the  pace  may  be  stinging, 
Though  the  jumps  be  all  danger  and  the  going  all  clinging." 
The  white,  square  church-tower  with  its  weather-cock 

swinging 
Rose  up  on  the  right  above  grass  and  dark  plough, 
Where  the  elm  trees'  black  branches  had  bud  on  the  bough. 

Riderless  Thankful  strode  on  at  his  side, 

His  bright  stirrup-irons  flew  up  at  each  stride; 

Being  free,  in  this  gallop,  had  filled  him  with  pride. 

Charles  thought,  "What  would  come  if  he  ran  out  or  shied? 

I  wish  from  my  heart  that  the  brute  would  keep  wide." 

Coranto  drew  up  on  Right  Royal's  near  quarter, 

Beyond  lay  a  hurdle  and  ditch  full  of  water. 

And  now  as  they  neared  it,  Right  Royal  took  heed 
Of  the  distance  to  go  and  the  steps  he  would  need; 
He  cocked  to  the  effort  with  eyes  bright  as  gleed, 
Then  Coranto's  wide  wallow  shot  past  him  at  speed: 
70 


3. 


•  .'Ml'1  ''       II      ''  '  II'    •  "'    ir*-1^ 

His  rider's  "Hup,  hup,  now! "  called  out  quick  and  cheerly, 
Sent  him  over  in  style,  but  Right  Royal  jumped  early, 

Just  a  second  too  soon,  and  from  some  feet  too  far, 
Charles  learned  the  mistake  as  he  struck  the  top  bar; 
Then  the  water  flashed  skywards,  the  earth  gave  a  jar, 
And  the  man  on  Coranto  looked  back  with  "Aha! 
That'll  teach  you,  my  son."  Then  with  straining  of  leather, 
Grey  Glory  and  Monkery  landed  together. 

For  a  second  the  stunning  kept  Charles  from  his  pain, 
Then  his  sense  flooded  back,  making  everything  plain. 
He  was  down  in  the  mud,  but  he  still  held  the  rein; 
Right  Royal  was  heaving  his  haunch  from  the  drain. 
The  field  was  ahead  of  him,  going  like  rain, 
And  though  the  plough  held  them,  they  went  like  the  wind 
To  the  eyes  of  a  man  left  so  badly  behind. 


71 


Charles  climbed  to  his  feet  as  Right  Royal  crawled  out, 
He  said,  "That's  extinction  beyond  any  doubt." 
On  the  plough,  on  and  on,  went  the  rush  of  the  rout. 
Charles  mounted  and  rode,  for  his  courage  was  stout, 
And  he  would  not  give  in  till  the  end  of  the  bout, 
But  plastered  with  poachings  he  rode  on  forsaken: 
He  had  lost  thirty  lengths  and  his  horse  had  been  shaken. 

Across  the  wet  ploughland  he  took  a  good  pull, 
With  the  thought  that  the  cup  of  his  sorrow  was  full, 
For  the  speed  of  a  stag  and  the  strength  of  a  bull 
Could  hardly  recover  the  ground  he  had  lost. 

Right  Royal  went  dully,  then  snorted  and  tost, 

Tost  his  head,  with  a  whicker,  went  on,  and  went  kind, 
And  the  horse's  great  spirit  touched  Charles  in  the  mind. 
Though  his  bruise  made  him  dizzy  and  tears  made  him 
blind, 


— ^/#fFT*i3--*t~'> 


72 


He  would  try  to  the  finish,  and  so  they  should  find. 
He  was  last,  thirty  lengths.    Here  he  took  in  his  sails, 
For  the  field  had  come  crash  at  the  white  post  and  rails. 

Here  Sir  Francis  ran  out,  scaring  all  who  stood  near, 
Going  crash  through  the  rail  like  a  runaway  deer, 
Then  the  riderless  Thankful  upset  Mutineer, 
Dakkanese  in  refusing,  wheeled  round  like  a  top 
Into  Culverin's  shoulder,  which  made  them  both  stop. 

They  reeled  from  the  shock,   slithered  sideways,  and 

crashed, 
Dakkanese   on   the   guard-rail,   which   gave,   and   then 

smashed. 
As  he  rolled,  the  near  shoes  of  the  Culverin  flashed 
High  in  air  for  a  moment,  bright  iron  in  strain : 
Then  he  rose  with  no  rider  and  tripped  in  his  rein. 

Right  Royal  came  up  as  the  Dakkanese  rose 
All  trembling  and  cowed  as  though  beaten  with  blows; 
The  Culverin  stumbled  with  the  reins  in  his  toes; 
On  the  far  side  the  leap  stood  the  Mutineer  grazing, 
His  man  was  a  heap  which  some  fellows  were  raising. 

Right  Royal  strode  on,  through  a  second  wet  plough, 
With  the  field  far  ahead  (Kubbadar  in  the  bow). 

73 


T 


Charles  thought,  "Kubbadar's  got  away  from  him  now. 

Well,  it's  little  to  me,  for  they're  so  far  ahead 

That  they'll  never  come  back,  though  I  ride  myself  dead." 

Right  Royal  bored  forward  and  leaned  on  his  hand, 

"Good  boy,"  said  his  master.    "He  must  understand. 

You're  the  one  friend  I'll  have  when  I've  sold  all  my  land. 

God  pity  my  Em  as  we  come  past  the  Stand, 

Last  of  all,  and  all  muddy;  but  now  for  Jim's  Pitch." 

Four  feet  of  gorse  fence,  then  a  fifteen-foot  ditch. 


And  the  fifteen-foot  ditch  glittered  bright  to  the  brim 
With  the  brook  that  ran  through  it  where  the  grayling  did 

swim; 
In  the  shallows  it  sparkled,  in  the  deeps  it  was  dim, 
When  the  race  was  first  run  it  had  nearly  drowned  Jim, 
And  now  the  bright  irons  of  twenty-four  horses 
Were  to  flicker  its  ripples  with  knockings  of  gorses. 


T^t  V  ^— 


**Vs 


From  far  in  the  rear  Charles  could  watch  them  take  hold 
Of  their  horses  and  push  them  across  the  light  mould; 
How  their  ears  all  cocked  forward,  how  the  drumming 

hoofs  rolled ! 
Kubbadar,  far  ahead,  flew  across  like  a  bird, 
Then  Soyland,  bad  second,  with  Muscatel  third. 

Then  Sir  Lopez,  and  Path  Finder,  striding  alone, 
Then  the  good  horse,  Red  Ember,  the  neabitten  roan. 
Then  the  little  Gavotte  bearing  less  than  ten  stone. 
Then  a  crowd  of  all  colours  with  Peterkinooks 
Going  strong  as  a  whale  goes,  head  up  and  out  flukes. 

And  there,  as  Charles  watched,  as  the  shoulders  went  back, 
The  riderless  Thankful  swerved  left  off  the  track, 
Crossing  just  to  the  front  of  the  Cimmeroon  black. 
Ere  the  rider  could  see  what  his  horse  was  about, 
Cimmeroon  swerved,  like  Thankful,  and  followed  him  out. 

Across  the  great  grass  in  the  midst  of  the  course 
Cimmeroon  ran  a  match  with  the  riderless  horse, 
Then  the  rider  took  charge,  part  by  skill,  part  by  force; 
He  turned  Cimmeroon  to  re-enter  the  race 
Seven  lengths  behind  Charles  in  the  post  of  disgrace. 

Beyond  the  next  fence,  at  the  top  of  a  slope, 
Charles  saw  his  field  fading  and  gave  up  all  hope. 

75 


Yet  he  said,  "Any  error  will  knot  me  my  rope. 

I  wish  that  some  power  would  help  me  to  see 

What  would  give  the  best  chance  for  Right  Royal  and  me. 

Shall  I  hurry  downhill,  to  catch  up  when  I  can? 

Being  last  is  the  devil  for  horse  and  for  man, 

For  it  makes  the  horse  slack  and  it  makes  the  man  sick. 

Well,  I've  got  to  decide  and  I've  got  to  be  quick. 

I  had  better  catch  up,  for  if  I  should  be  last, 

It  would  kill  my  poor  Emmy  to  see  me  come  past. 

I  cannot  leave  Emmy  to  suffer  like  that, 

So  I'll  hurry  downhill  and  then  pull  on  the  flat." 

So  he  thought,  so  he  settled,  but  then,  as  he  stirred, 
Right  Royal's  ears  moved  like  a  vicious  man's  word; 


76 


So  he  thought,  "If  I  try  it,  the  horse  will  refuse." 
So  he  gave  up  the  project  and  shook  in  his  shoes. 

Then  he  thought,  "Since  the  horse  will  not  stand  inter- 
ference, 

I  must  even  sit  quiet  and  sink  the  appearance, 

Since  his  nerves  have  been  touched,  it's  as  well  we're 
alone." 

He  turned  down  the  hill  with  his  heart  like  a  stone. 

"But,"  he  cried,  "they'll  come  back,  for  they've  gene  such 

a  burst 
That  they'll  all  soon  be  panting,  in  need  to  be  nursed, 
They  will  surely  come  back,  but  to  wait  till  they  do, 
Lord,  it's  hell  to  the  waiter,  it  cuts  a  man  through." 

Then  into  his  mind  came  the  Avalon  case, 

When  a  man,  left  at  post,  without  hope  of  a  place, 

First  had  suffered  in   patience,  then  had  wormed   his 

way  up, 
Then  had  come  with  fine  judgment,  and  just  won  the  Cup. 

Hoofs  thundered  behind  him,  the  Cimmeroon  caught  him, 
His  man  cursing  Thankful  and  the  sire  who  wrought  him. 
"Did  you  see  that  brown  devil?  "  he  cried  as  he  passed; 
"He  carried  me  out,  but  I'll  never  be  last. 

77 


Just  the  wrong  side  the  water  the  brute  gave  a  swerve, 
And  he  carried  me  out,  half  across  the  course-curve. 
Look,  he's  cut  right  across  now,  we'll  meet  him  again. 
Well,  I  hope  someone  knocks  him  and  kicks  out  his  brain. 

Well,  I'll  never  be  last,  though  I  can't  win  the  Cup. 
No  sense  lolling  here,  man,  you'd  better  pull  up." 
Then  he  roused  Cimmeroon,  and  was  off  like  a  swallow. 
Charles  watched,  sick  at  heart,  with  a  longing  to  follow. 

"Better  follow,"  he  thought,  "for  he  knows  more  than  I, 

Since  he  rode  here  before,  and  it's  wiser  to  try : 

Would  my  horse  had  but  wings,  would  his  feet  would  but 

lift; 
Would  we  spun  on  this  speedway  as  wind  spins  the  drift. 

There  they  go  out  of  sight,  over  fence,  to  the  Turn; 
They  are  going  still  harder,  they  leave  me  astern. 


'-       *~ 


78 


They  will  never  come  back,  I  am  lost  past  recall." 
So  he  cried  for  a  comfort,  and  only  gat  gall. 

In  the  glittering  branches  of  the  world  without  end 
Were  the  spirits,  Em's  Helper  and  Charles  CothilPs  Friend, 
And  the  Force  of  Right  Royal  with  a  crinier  of  flame; 
There  they  breathed  the  bright  glory  till  the  summoning 
came. 

From  the  Stand  where  Em  watched,  from  the  field  where 

Charles  rode, 
From  the  mud  where  Right  Royal  in  solitude  strode, 
Came  the  call  of  three  spirits  to  the  spirits  that  guard, 
Crying,  "Up  now,  and  help  him,  for  the  danger  bears 

hard." 

There  they  looked,  those  immortals,  from  the  boughs 

dropping  balm, 
But  their  powers  were  stirred  not,  and  their  grave  brows 

were  calm, 
For  they  said,  "He's  despairing  and  the  horse  is  still  vext." 
Charles  cleared  Channing's  Blackthorn  and  strode  to  the 

next. 

The  next  was  the  Turn  in  a  bogland  of  rushes; 
There  the  springs  of  still  water  were  trampled  to  slushes; 

79 


The  peewits  lamented,  flapping  down,  flagging  far, 
The  riders  dared  deathwards  each  trusting  his  star. 

The  mud  made  them  slither,  the  Turn  made  them  close, 
The  stirrup  steels  clinked  as  they  thrust  in  their  toes, 
The  brown  horse  Exception  was  struck  as  he  rose, 
Struck  to  earth  by  the  Rocket,  then  kicked  by  the  grey, 
Then  Thunderbolt  smote  him  and  rolled  him  astray. 

The  man  on  Exception,  Bun  Manor,  fell  clear, 
With  Monkery's  shoes  half  an  inch  from  his  ear, 
A  drench  of  wet  mud  from  the  hoofs  struck  his  cheek, 
But  the  race  was  gone  from  him  before  he  could  speak. 


80 


There  Exception  and  Thunderbolt  ended  their  race, 
Their  bright  flanks  all  smeared  with  the  mud  of  the  place; 
In  the  green  fields  of  Tencombe  and  the  grey  downs  of 

Churn 
Their  names  had  been  glories  till  they  fell  at  the  Turn. 

Em  prayed  in  her  place  that  her  lover  might  know 
Not  to  hurry  Right  Royal,  but  let  him  go  slow: 
White-lipped  from  her  praying,  she  sat,  with  shut  eyes, 
Begging  help  from  her  Helper,  the  deathless,  the  wise. 

From  the  gold  of  his  branches  her  Helper  took  heed, 
He  sent  forth  a  thought  to  help  Charles  in  his  need. 
As  the  white,  gleaming  gannet  eyes  fish  in  the  sea, 
So  the  Thought  sought  a  mortal  to  bring  this  to  be. 

By  the  side  of  Exception  Bun  Manor  now  stood, 
Sopping  rags  on  a  hock  that  was  dripping  bright  blood. 
He  had  known  Charles  of  old  and  defeat  made  him  kind, 
The  thought  from  the  Helper  came  into  his  mind. 

So  he  cried  to  Charles  Cothill,  "Go  easy,"  he  cried, 
"Don't  hurry;  don't  worry;  sit  still  and  keep  wide. 
They  flowed  like  the  Severn,  they'll  ebb  like  the  tide. 
They'll  come  back  and  you'll  catch  them."   His  voice  died 
away. 

In  front  lay  the  Dyke,  deep  as  drowning,  steel  grey. 

81 


Charles  felt  his  horse  see  it  and  stir  at  the  sight. 
Again  his  heart  beat  to  the  dream  of  the  night; 
Once  again  in  his  heart's  blood  the  horse  seemed  to  say, 
"I'll  die  or  I'll  do  it.    It's  my  day  to-day." 

He  saw  the  grey  water  in  shade  from  its  fence, 

The  rows  of  white  faces  all  staring  intense; 

All  the  heads  straining  forward,  all  the  shoulders  packt 

dense. 
Beyond,  he  saw  Thankful,  the  riderless  brown, 
Snatching  grass,  dodging  capture,  with  reins  hanging  down. 

Then  Thankful  stopped  eating  and  cocked  up  his  head, 
He  eyed  the  swift  horses  that  Kubbadar  led, 
His  eye  filled  with  fire  at  the  roll  of  their  tread; 
Then  he  tore  down  the  course  with  a  flash  of  bright  shoes, 
As  the  race's  bright  herald  on  fire  with  news. 

As  Charles  neared  the  water,  the  Rocket  ran  out 

By  jumping  the  railings  and  kicking  a  clout 

Of  rotten  white  woodwork  to  startle  the  trout. 

When  Charles  cleared  the  water,  the  grass  stretcht  before 

And  the  glory  of  going  burned  in  to  the  core. 

Far  over  his  head  with  a  whicker  of  wings 

Came  a  wisp  of  five  snipe  from  a  field  full  of  springs; 

82 


The  gleam  on  their  feathers  went  wavering  past 
And  then  some  men  booed  him  for  being  the  last. 

But  last  though  he  was,  all  his  blood  was  on  fire 
With  the  rush  of  the  wind  and  the  gleam  of  the  mire, 
And  the  leap  of  his  heart  to  the  skylarks  in  quire, 
And  the  feel  of  his  horse  going  onward,  on,  on, 
Under  sky  with  white  banners  and  bright  sun  that  shone. 

Like  a  star  in  the  night,  like  a  spring  in  the  waste, 
The  image  of  Emmy  rose  up  as  he  raced, 
Till  his  mind  was  made  calm  and  his  spirit  was  braced. 
For  the  prize  was  bright  Emmy;  his  blood  beat  and  beat 
As  her  beauty  made  music  in  that  thunder  of  feet. 

The  wind  was  whirled  past  him,  it  hummed  in  his  ears, 

Right  Royal's  excitement  had  banished  his  fears, 

For  his  leap  was  like  singing,  his  stride  was  like  cheers, 


All  his  blood  was  in  glory,  all  his  soul  was  blown  bare, 
They  were  one,  blood  and  purpose,  they  strode  through  the 
air. 

"What  is  life  if  I  lose  her,  what  is  death  if  I  win? 
At  the  end  of  this  living  the  new  lives  begin. 
Whatever  life  may  be,  whatever  death  is, 
I  am  spirit  eternal,  I  am  this,  I  am  this!" 

Girls  waved,  and  men  shouted,  like  flashes,  like  shots, 
Out  of  pale  blurs  of  faces  whose  features  were  dots; 
Two  fences  with  toppings  were  cleared  without  hitch, 
Then  they  ran  for  Lost  Lady's,  a  fence  and  dry  ditch. 

Here  Monkery's  rider,  on  seeing  a  chance, 

Shot  out  beyond  Soyland  to  lead  the  advance. 

Then  he  steadied  and  summed  up  his  field  with  a  glance. 

All  crossed  the  Lost  Lady's,  that  dry  ditch  of  fear, 

Then  a  roar  broke  about  them,  the  race-course  was  near. 

Right  and  left  were  the  swing-boats  and  merry-go-rounds, 
Yellow  varnish  that  wavered,  machines  making  sounds, 
Shots  cracking  like  cork-pops,  fifes  whining  with  steam, 
"All  hot,"  from  a  pieman;  all  blurred  as  in  dream; 

Then  the  motors,  then  cheering,  then  the  brass  of  a  band, 
Then  the  white  rails  all  crowded  with  a  mob  on  each  hand. 
84 


Then  they  swerved  to  the  left  over  gorse-bush  and  hurdle 
And  they  rushed  for  the  Water,  where  a  man's  blood  might 
curdle. 

Charles  entered  the  race-course  and  prayed  in  his  mind 
That  love  for  the  moment  might  make  Emmy  blind, 
Not  see  him  come  past  half  a  distance  behind: 
For  an  instant  he  thought,  "I  must  shove  on  ahead, 
For  to  pass  her  like  this,  Lord,  I'd  rather  be  dead." 

Then,  in  crossing  the  hurdle,  the  Stand  arose  plain, 
All  the  flags,  horns  and  cheers  beat  like  blows  on  his  brain, 
And  he  thought,  "Time  to  race  when  I  come  here  again, 
If  I  once  lose  my  head,  I'll  be  lost  past  appeal." 
All  the  crowd  flickered  past,  like  a  film  on  a  reel, 

Like  a  ribbon,  whirled  past  him,  all  painted  with  eyes. 
All  the  real,  as  he  rode,  was  the  horse  at  his  thighs, 
And  the  thought,  "They'll  come  back,  if  I've  luck,  if  I'm 

wise." 
Some  banners  uncrumpled  on  the  blue  of  the  skies, 
The  cheers  became  frantic,  the  blur  of  men  shook, 
As  Thankful  and  Kubbadar  went  at  the  brook. 

Neck  and  neck,  stride  for  stride,  they  increased  as  they 
neared  it, 

85 


Though  the  danger  gleamed  greyly,  they  galloped  to  beard 

it; 

And  Kubbadar  dwelt  on  his  jump  as  he  cleared  it, 
While  Thankful  went  on  with  a  half  a  length  lead. 
Charles  thought,  'Kubbadar,  there,  is  going  to  seed." 

Then  Monkery  took  it,  then  Soyland,  then  two, 
Muscatel  and  Sir  Lopez,  who  leaped  not  but  flew, 
Like  a  pair  of  June  swallows  going  over  the  dew, 
Like  a  flight  of  bright  fishes  from  a  field  of  seas  blue, 
Like  a  wisp  of  snipe  wavering  in  the  dusk  out  of  view. 
Then  Red  Ember,  Path  Finder,  Gavotte  and  Coranto, 
Then  The  Ghost  going  level  by  Syringa  a-taunto. 


86 


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Then  Peterkinooks,  then  the  Cimmeroon  black, 
Who  had  gone  to  his  horses,  not  let  them  come  back; 
Then  Stormalong  rousing,  then  the  Blowbury  crack, 
Counter  Vair,  going  grandly  beside  Cross-Molin, 
All  charged  the  bright  brook  and  Coranto  went  in. 

Natuna,  Grey  Glory  and  Hadrian  followed, 
Flying  clear  of  the  water  where  Coranto  now  wallowed; 
Cannonade  leaped  so  big  that  the  lookers-on  holloed. 
Ere  the  splash  from  Coranto  was  bright  on  the  grass, 
The  face  of  the  water  had  seen  them  all  pass. 

But  Coranto  half  scrambled,  then  slipped  on  his  side, 
Then  churned  in  the  mud  till  the  brook  was  all  dyed; 
As  Charles  reached  the  water  Coranto's  man  cried, 
"Put  him  at  it  like  blazes  and  give  him  a  switch; 
Jump  big,  man,  for  God's  sake,  I'm  down  in  the  ditch." 


87 


88 


Right  Royal  went  at  it  and  streamed  like  a  comet, 

And  the  next  thing  Charles  knew,  he  was  twenty  yards 

from  it; 
And  he  thought  about  Em  as  he  rushed  past  her  place, 
With  a  prayer  for  God's  peace  on  her  beautiful  face. 

Then  he  tried  to  keep  steady.    "Oh,  steady,"  he  said, 
"I'm  riding  with  judgment,  not  leading  a  raid, 
And  I'm  getting  excited,  and  there's  Cannonade. 
What's  the  matter?"  he  shouted  as  Royal  swept  past. 
"Sprained!"  shouted  the  man,  " over- jumped,  at  the  last." 


"Rough  luck,"  shouted  Charles.   Then  the  crowd  dropped 

away, 
Then  the  sun  shone  behind  him,  the  bright  turned  to  grey; 


'■•iai» 


89 


They  were  round,  the  first  time,  they  were  streaming  away 
For  the  second  time  round.  There  the  starting-post  shone. 
Then  they  swung  round  the  curve  and  went  galloping  on. 

All  the  noise  died  behind,  Fate  was  waiting  in  front, 
Now  the  racing  began,  they  had  done  with  the  hunt. 
With  the  sunlight  behind  him  Charles  saw  how  they  went; 
No  nearer,  but  further,  and  only  one  spent. 

Only  Kubbadar  dwelling,  the  rest  going  strong, 
Taking  jump  after  jump  as  a  bird  takes  a  song, 
Their  thirty  lengths'  lead  seemed  a  weary  way  long, 
It  seemed  to  grow  longer,  it  seemed  to  increase: 
"This  is  bitter,"  he  said.    "May  it  be  for  my  peace. 

My  dream  was  a  glimpse  of  the  world  beyond  sense, 
All  beauty  and  wisdom  are  messages  thence. 
There  the  difference  of  bodies  and  the  strain  of  control 
Are  removed;  beast  with  man  speaks,  and  spirit  with  soul. 

My  vision  was  Wisdom,  or  the  World  as  it  Is. 
Fate  rules  us,  not  Wisdom,  whose  ways  are  not  his, 
Fate,  weaponed  with  all  things,  has  willed  that  I  fall; 
So  be  it,  Fate  orders,  and  we  go  to  the  wall. 

Go  down  to  the  beaten,  who  have  come  to  the  truth 
That  is  deeper  than  sorrow  and  stronger  than  youth, 
90 


That  is  God,  the  foundation,  who  sees  and  is  just 
To  the  beauty  within  us  who  are  nothing  but  dust. 

Yet,  Royal,  my  comrade,  before  Fate  decides, 
His  hand  stays,  uncertain,  like  the  sea  between  tides, 
Then  a  man  has  a  moment,  if  he  strike  not  too  late, 
When  his  soul  shakes  the  world-soul,  and  can  even  change 
Fate. 

So  you  and  I,  Royal,  before  we  give  in, 
Will  spend  blood  and  soul  in  our  effort  to  win, 
And  if  all  be  proved  vain  when  our  effort  is  sped, 
May  the  hoofs  of  our  conquerors  trample  us  dead." 

Then  the  soul  of  Right  Royal  thrilled  up  through  each 

hand: 
"We  are  one,  for  this  gallop;  we  both  understand. 
If  my  lungs  give  me  breathing,  if  my  loins  stand  the  strain, 
You  may  lash  me  to  strips  and  it  shan't  be  in  vain. 

For  to-day,  in  this  hour,  my  Power  will  come 
From  my  Past  to  my  Present  (and  a  Spirit  gives  some) . 
We  have  gone  many  gallops,  we  two,  in  the  past, 
When  I  go  with  my  Power  you  will  know  me  at  last. 

You  remember  the  morning  when  the  red  leaf  hung  still, 
When  they  found  in  the  beech-clump  on  Lollingdon  Hill, 

91 


,  JLl  k  I 


~^in~T     ir-^^ni1 2  "'   ir1""'''!!',"   ■  ■» 

When  we  led  past  the  Sheep  Fold  and  along  the  Fair  Mile? 
When  I  go  with  my  Power,  that  will  not  seem  worth  while. 

Then  the  day  in  the  valley  when  we  found  in  the  wood, 
When  we  led  all  the  gallop  to  the  river  in  flood, 
And  the  sun  burst  out  shining  as  the  fox  took  the  stream; 
When  I  go  with  my  Power,  that  will  all  seem  a  dream. 

Then  the  day  on  the  Downland  when  we  went  like  the  light 
From  the  spring  by  Hurst  Compton  till  the  Clump  was  in 

sight, 
Till  we  killed  by  The  Romans,  where  Blowbury  is; 
All  the  best  of  that  gallop  shall  be  nothing  to  this. 


92 


.i^ip^Mw. 


.  .'■■■.XJ,^».ita    «mA>. 


,.>w..y — v  *-■»*..*  >. 


If  I  failed  in  the  past  with  my  Power  away, 

I  was  only  my  shadow,  it  was  not  my  day, 

So  I  sulked  like  my  sire,  or  shrank,  like  my  dam; 

Now  I  come  to  my  Power  you  will  know  what  I  am. 

I've  the  strength,  you've  the  brain,  we  are  running  as  one, 
And  nothing  on  earth  can  be  lost  till  it's  won. 
If  I  live  to  the  end  naught  shall  put  you  to  shame." 
So  he  thrilled,  going  flame-like,  with  a  crinier  of  flame. 

"Yet,"  he  thrilled,  "it  may  be,  that  before  the  end  come 
Death  will  touch  me,  the  Changer,  and  carry  me  home. 
For  we  know  not,  0  master,  when  our  life  shall  have  rest, 
But  the  Life  is  near  change  that  has  uttered  its  best. 
If  we  grow  like  the  grasses,  we  fall  like  the  flower, 
And  I  know,  I  touch  Death  when  I  come  to  my  Power." 


Now  over  the  course  flew  invisible  birds, 

All  the  wants  of  the  watchers,  all  the  thoughts  and  winged 

words, 
Swift  as  floatings  of  fire  from  a  bonfire's  crest 
When  they  burn  leaves  on  Kimble  and  the  fire  streams 

west, 

93 


Bright  an  instant,  then  dying,  but  renewed  and  renewed, 
So   the   thoughts   chased   the  racers    like  hounds   that 

pursued, 
Bringing  cheer  to  their  darlings,  bringing  curse  to  their 

foes, 
Searching  into  men's  spirits  till  their  Powers  arose. 

Red  and  rigid  the  Powers  of  the  riding  men  were, 
And  as  sea  birds  on  Ailsa,  in  the  nesting  time  there, 
Rise  like  leaves  in  a  whirlwind  and  float  like  leaves  blown, 
So  the  wants  chased  the  riders  and  fought  for  their  own. 

Unseen  by  the  riders,  from  the  myriad  tense  brains 
Came  the  living  thoughts  flying  to  clutch  at  men's  reins, 
Clearing  paths  for  their  darlings  by  running  in  cry 
At  the  heads  of  their  rivals  till  the  darlings  gat  by, 

As  in  football,  when  forwards  heave  all  in  a  pack, 

With  their  arms  round  each  other  and  their  heels  heeling 

back, 
And  their  bodies  all  straining,  as  they  heave,  and  men  fall, 
And  the  halves  hover  hawklike  to  pounce  on  the  ball, 

And  the  runners  poise  ready,  while  the  mass  of  hot  men 
Heaves  and  slips,  like  rough  bullocks  making  play  in  a  pen, 
And  the  crowd  sees  the  heaving,  and  is  still,  till  it  break, 
So  the  riders  endeavoured  as  they  strained  for  the  stake. 
94 


p^«S 


They  skimmed  through  the  grassland,  they  came. to  the 

plough, 
The  wind  rushed  behind  them  like  the  waves  from  a  prow, 
The  clods  rose  behind  them  with  speckles  of  gold 
From  the  iron-crusht  coltsfoot  flung  up  from  the  mould. 

All  green  was  the  plough  with  the  thrusts  of  young  corn, 
Pools  gleamed  in  the  ruts  that  the  cart-wheels  had  worn, 
And  Kubbadar's  man  wished  he  had  not  been  born. 
Natuna  was  weary  and  dwelt  on  her  stride, 
Grey  Glory's  grey  tail  rolled  about,  side  to  side. 

Then  swish,  came  a  shower,  from  a  driving  grey  cloud, 
Though  the  blue  sky  shone  brightly  and  the  larks  sang 

aloud. 
As  the  squall  of  rain  pelted,  the  coloured  caps  bowed, 
With  Thankful  still  leading  and  Monkery  close, 
The  hoofs  smacked  the  clayland,  the  flying  clods  rose. 

They  slowed  on  the  clayland,  the  rain  pelted  by, 
The  end  of  a  rainbow  gleamed  out  in  the  sky; 
Natuna  dropped  back  till  Charles  heard  her  complain, 
Grey  Glory's  forequarters  seemed  hung  on  his  rein, 
Cimmeroon  clearly  was  feeling  the  strain. 
But  the  little  Gavotte  skimmed  the  clay  like  a  witch, 
Charles  saw  her  coquet  as  she  went  at  Jim's  Pitch. 

95 


They  went  at  Jim's  Pitch,  through  the  deeply  dug  gaps 
Where  the  hoofs  of  great  horses  had  kicked  off  the  scraps, 
And  there  at  the  water  they  met  with  mishaps, 
For  Natuna  stopped  dead  and  Grey  Glory  went  in, 
And  a  cannon  on  landing  upset  Cross-Molin. 

As  swallows  bound  northward  when  apple-bloom  blows, 
See  laggards  drop  spent  from  their  flight  as  it  goes, 
Yet  can  pause  not  in  heaven  as  they  scythe  the  thin  air 
But  go  on  to  the  house-eaves  and  the  nests  clinging  bare, 
So  Charles  flashed  beyond  them,  those  three  men  the  less 
Who  had  gone  to  get  glory  and  met  with  distress. 

He  rode  to  the  rise-top,  and  saw,  down  the  slope, 
The  race  far  ahead  at  a  steady  strong  lope 
Going  over  the  grassland,  too  well  for  his  peace, 
They  were  steady  as  oxen  and  strong  as  wild  geese. 

As  a  man  by  a  cornfield  on  a  windy  wild  day 

Sees  the  corn  bow  in  shadows  ever  hurrying  away, 

And  wonders,  in  watching,  when  the  light  with  bright  feet 

Will  harrow  those  shadows  from  the  ears  of  the  wheat, 

So  Charles,  as  he  watched,  wondered  when  the  bright  face 

Of  the  finish  would  blaze  on  that  smouldering  race. 
96 


On  the  last  of  the  grass,  ere  the  going  was  dead, 
Counter  Vair's  man  shot  out  with  his  horse  by  the  head, 
Like  a  partridge  put  up  from  the  stubble  he  sped, 
He  dropped  Kubbadar  and  he  flew  by  Red  Ember 
And  to  Monkery's  girth  like  a  leaf  in  November. 

Then  Stormalong  followed,  and  went  to  the  front, 
And  just  as  the  find  puts  a  flame  to  a  hunt, 
So  the  rush  of  those  horses  put  flame  to  the  race. 
Charles  saw  them  all  shaken  to  quickening  pace. 

And  Monkery  moved,  not  to  let  them  go  by, 
And  the  steadiest  rider  made  ready  to  fly; 
Well  into  the  wet  land  they  leaped  from  the  dry, 
They  scattered  the  rain-pools  that  mirrored  the  sky, 
They  crushed  down  the  rushes  that  pushed  from  the 

plough. 
And  Charles  longed  to  follow,  but  muttered  "Not  now." 


97 


"Not  now,"  so  he  thought.    "Yet  if  not"  (he  said)  "when 
Shall  I  come  to  those  horses  and  scupper  their  men? 
Will  they  never  come  back?    Shall  I  never  get  up?  " 
So  he  drank  bitter  gall  from  a  very  cold  cup. 

But  he  nursed  his  horse  gently  and  prayed  for  the  best, 
And  he  caught  Cimmeroon,  who  was  sadly  distrest, 
And  he  passed  Cimmeroon,  with  the  thought  that  the  black 
Was  as  nearly  dead  beat  as  the  man  on  his  back. 
Then  he  gained  on  his  field  who  were  galled  by  the  churn, 
The  plough  searched  them  out  as  they  came  to  the  Turn. 

But  Gavotte,  black  and  coral,  went  strong  as  a  spate; 
Charles  thought,  "  She's  a  flier  and  she  carries  no  weight." 


1__^    <W  A 


98 


And  now,  beyond  question,  the  field  began  tailing, 
For  all  had  been  tested  and  many  were  ailing, 
The  riders  were  weary,  the  horses  were  failing, 
The  blur  of  bright  colours  rolled  over  the  railing, 
With  the  grunts  of  urged  horses,  and  the  oaths  of  hot  men, 
"Gerr  on,  you,"  "Come  on,  now,"  agen  and  agen; 
They  spattered  the  mud  on  the  willow  tree's  bole 
And  they  charged  at  the  danger;  and  the  danger  took  toll. 

For  Monkery  landed,  but  dwelt  on  the  fence, 
So  that  Counter  Vair  passed  him  in  galloping  thence. 
Then  Stormalong  blundered,  then  bright  Muscatel 
Slipped  badly  on  landing  and  stumbled  and  fell, 
Then  rose  in  the  morrish,  with  his  man  on  his  neck 
Like  a  nearly  dead  sailor  afloat  on  a  wreck, 


With  his  whip  in  the  mud  and  his  stirrups  both  gone, 
Yet  he  kept  in  the  saddle  and  made  him  go  on. 

As  Charles  leaped  the  Turn,  all  the  field  was  tailed  out 

Like  petals  of  roses  that  wind  blows  about, 

Like  petals  of  colour  blown  back  and  brought  near, 

Like  poppies  in  wind-flaws  when  corn  is  in  ear; 

Fate  held  them  or  sped  them,  the  race  was  beginning. 

Charles  said,  "  I  must  ride,  or  I've  no  chance  of  winning." 

So  gently  he  quickened,  yet  making  no  call; 

Right  Royal  replied  as  though  knowing  it  all. 

He  passed  Kubbadar,  who  was  ready  to  fall, 

Then  he  strode  up  to  Hadrian,  up  to  his  girth, 

They  eyed  the  Dyke's  glitter  and  picked  out  a  berth. 

Now  the  race  reached  the  water  and  over  it  flew 

In  a  sweep  of  great  muscle  strained  taut  and  guyed  true. 

There  Muscatel  floundered  and  came  to  a  halt, 

Muscatel,  the  bay  'chaser  without  any  fault. 

Right  Royal's  head  lifted,  Right  Royal  took  charge, 
On  the  left  near  the  railings,  ears  cocked,  going  large, 
Leaving  Hadrian  behind  as  a  yacht  leaves  a  barge. 
Though  Hadrian's  rider  called  something  unheard, 
He  was  past  him  at  speed  like  the  albatross  bird, 
Running  up  to  Path  Finder,  they  leaped,  side  by  side, 
And  the  foam  from  Path  Finder  flecked  white  on  his  hide. 

IOO 


And  on  landing,  he  lifted,  while  Path  Finder  dwelt, 
And  his  noble  eye  brightened  from  the  glory  he  felt, 
And  the  mud  flung  behind  him  flicked  Path  Finder's  chest, 
As  he  left  him  behind  and  went  on  to  the  rest. 

Charles  cast  a  glance  back,  but  he  could  not  divine 
Why  the  man  on  Path  Finder  should  make  him  a  sign, 
Nor  why  Hadrian's  rider  should  shout,  and  then  point, 
With  his  head  nodded  forward  and  a  jerked  elbow  joint. 

But  he  looked  as  he  pointed,  both  forward  and  down, 
And  he  saw  that  Right  Royal  was  smeared  like  a  clown, 
Smeared  red  and  bespattered  with  flecks  of  bright  blood, 
From  a  blood-vessel  burst,  as  he  well  understood. 

And  just  as  he  saw  it,  Right  Royal  went  strange 
As  one  whom  Death's  finger  has  touched  to  a  change; 
He  went  with  a  stagger  that  sickened  the  soul, 
As  a  force  stricken  feeble  and  out  of  control. 

Charles  thought,  "He  is  dying,  and  this  is  the  end, 
I  am  losing  my  Emmy  and  killing  my  friend; 
He  was  hurt  when  we  fell,  as  I  thought  at  the  first, 
And  I've  forced  him  three  miles  with  a  blood-vessel  burst! 

IOI 


M 


.  mJl.  j 


mi'  ■'     ir   ■  ■ '  ir  •  -'  irr ii  '." 


And  his  game  heart  went  on . "   Here  a  rush  close  behind 
Made  him  cast  a  glance  back  with  despair  in  his  mind. 
It  was  Cimmeroon  rushing,  his  lips  twitcht  apart, 
His  eyes  rolled  back  sightless,  and  death  in  his  heart. 
He  reached  to  Right  Royal,  then  fell,  and  was  dead, 
Nevermore  to  stretch  reins  with  his  beautiful  head. 

A  gush  of  bright  blood  rilled  his  mouth  as  he  sank, 
And  he  reached  out  his  hoofs  to  the  heave  of  his  flank, 
And  Charles,  leaning  forward,  made  certain,  and  cried, 
"This  is  Cimmeroon's  blood,  blown  in  passing  beside, 
And  Roy's  going  strangely  was  just  that  he  felt 
Death  coming  behind  him,  or  blood  that  he  smelt." 


So  Charles's  heart  lightened  and  Royal  went  steady 
As  a  water  bound  seaward  set  free  from  an  eddy, 
As  a  water  sucked  downward  to  leap  at  a  weir 
Sucked  swifter  and  swifter  till  it  shoot  like  a  spear. 


102 


<>'*^ 


*5 


l*-^*-~£^^^£fa££&j^s^. 


There,  a  mile  on  ahead,  was  the  Stand  like  a  cliff, 

Grey  wood,  packed  with  faces,  under  banners  blown  stiff, 

Where,  in  two  minutes  more,  they  would  cheer  for  him — 

if— 
If  he  came  to  those  horses  still  twelve  lengths  ahead. 
"0  Royal,  you  do  it,  or  kill  me!"  he  said. 

They  went  at  the  hurdle  as  though  it  weren't  there, 
White  splinters  of  hurdle  flew  up  in  the  air, 
And  down,  like  a  rabbit,  went  Syringa  the  mare; 
Her  man  somersaulted  right  under  Gavotte, 
And  Syringa  went  on  but  her  rider  did  not. 


But  the  little  Gavotte  tucked  her  feet  away  clear, 
Just  an  inch  to  one  side  of  the  fallen  man's  ear, 
With  a  flash  of  horse  wisdom  as  she  went  on  the  wing, 
Not  to  tread  on  man's  body,  that  marvellous  thing. 


103 


As  in  mill-streams  in  summer  the  dark  water  drifts 
Petals  mown  in  the  hayfield  skimmed  over  by  swifts, 
Petals  blue  from  the  speedwell  or  sweet  from  the  lime, 
And  the  fish  rise  to  test  them,  as  they  float,  for  a  time, 
Yet  they  all  loiter  sluicewards  and  are  whirled,  and  then 

drowned, 
So  the  race  swept  the  horses  till  they  glimmered  the  ground. 

Charles  looked  at  those  horses,  and  speedily  guesst 
That  the  roan  horse,  Red  Ember,  was  one  of  the  best; 
He  was  level  and  easy,  not  turning  a  hair, 
But  with  power  all  ready  when  his  rider  should  care, 
And  he  leaped  like  a  lover  and  his  coat  still  did  shine. 
Charles  thought,  "He's  a  wonder,  and  he's  twelve  lengths 
from  mine." 

There  were  others  still  in  it,  according  to  looks: 

Sir  Lopez,  and  Soyland,  and  Peterkinooks, 

Counter  Vair  and  Gavotte,  all  with  plenty  to  spend; 

Then  Monkery  worn,  and  The  Ghost  at  his  end. 

But  the  roan  horse,  Red  Ember,  seemed  playing  a  game. 

Charles  thought,  "He's  the  winner;  he  can  run  us  all 

tame." 

The  wind  brought  a  tune  and  a  faint  noise  of  cheers, 

Right  Royal  coquetted  and  cocked  up  his  ears. 
104 


Charles  saw  his  horse  gaining;  the  going  increased; 
His  touch  on  the  mouth  felt  the  soul  of  the  beast, 
And  the  heave  of  each  muscle  and  the  look  of  his  eye 
Said,  "I'll  come  to  those  horses,  and  pass  them,  or  die." 

Like  a  thing  in  a  dream  the  grey  buildings  drew  nearer, 
The  babble  rose  louder  and  the  organ's  whine  clearer, 
The  hurdle  came  closer,  he  rushed  through  its  top 
Like  a  comet  in  heaven  that  nothing  can  stop. 

Then  they  strode  the  green  grass  for  the  Lost  Lady's  grave, 
And  Charles  felt  Right  Royal  rise  up  like  a  wave, 
Like  a  wave  far  to  seaward  that  lifts  in  a  line 
And  advances  to  shoreward  in  a  slipping  incline, 

And  climbs,  and  comes  toppling,  and  advances  in  glory, 
Mounting  inwards,  marching  onwards,  with  his  shoulders 

all  hoary, 
Sweeping  shorewards  with  a  shouting  to  burst  on  the  sand, 
So  Right  Royal  sent  meaning  through  the  rein  in  each 

hand. 

Charles  felt  like  a  captain  whose  ship  has  long  chased 
Some  ship  better  handled,  better  manned,  better  placed, 
And  has  all  day  beheld  her,  that  ship  of  his  dream, 

i©5 


-  JL~.*  &% 


i-^^—i^sss^^naA^.^,^,..^ 


Bowing  swanlike  beyond  him  up  a  blue  hill  of  gleam, 
Yet,  at  dark,  the  wind  rising  makes  his  rival  strike  sail 
While  his  own  ship  crowds  canvas  and  comes  within  hail; 

Till  he  see  her,  his  rival,  snouting  into  the  grey, 
Like  a  sea-rock  in  winter  that  stands  and  breaks  spray, 
And  by  lamplight  goes  past  her  in  a  roaring  of  song 
Shouting,  "Let  fall  your  royals:  stretch  the  halliards 
along!" 

Now  The  Ghost  dropped  behind  him,  now  his  horses 

drew  close. 
Charles  watched  them,  in  praying,  while  his  hopes  rose 

and  rose, 
"O  God,  give  me  patience,  give  me  luck,  give  me  skill, 
For  he's  going  so  grandly  I  think  that  he  will." 

They  went  at  Lost  Lady's  like  Severn  at  flood, 
With  an  urging  of  horses  and  a  squelching  of  mud; 
By  the  hot  flanks  of  horses  the  toppings  were  bruised, 
And  Syringa  the  manless  swerved  right  and  refused, 


106 


-»*&.. 


#••- 


•^TThrr— t ir      l  "   '    II"     '    "l 


Swerved  right  on  a  sudden,  as  none  could  expect, 
Straight  into  Right  Royal,  who  slithered  and  pecked, 
Though  Charles  held  him  up  and  got  safely  across, 
He  was  round  his  nag's  neck  within  touch  of  a  toss. 

He  gat  to  his  saddle,  he  never  knew  how; 

What  hope  he  had  had  was  knocked  out  of  him  now, 

But  his  courage  came  back  as  his  terror  declined, 

He  spoke  to  Right  Royal  and  made  up  his  mind. 

He  judged  the  lengths  lost  and  the  chance  that  remained, 

And  he  followed  his  field,  and  he  gained,  and  he  gained. 

He  watched  them,  those  horses,  so  splendid,  so  swift, 
Whirled  down  the  green  roadway  like  leaves  in  the  lift : 
Now  he  measured  their  mettle,  and  said  with  a  moan, 


107 


"They  can  beat  me,  Lord  help  me,  though  they  give  me  a 

stone. 
Red  Ember's  a  wonder,  and  Soyland's  the  same, 
And  Gavotte  there's  a  beauty,  and  she  goes  like  a  flame; 
But  Peterkinooks,  that  I  used  to  despise, 
Is  the  horse  that  must  win  if  his  looks  are  not  lies." 

Their  bright  colours  flitted,  as  at  dusk  in  Brazil 

Bright  birds  reach  the  tree- tops  when  the  land  wind  falls 

still, 
When  the  sky  is  all  scarlet  on  the  tops  of  the  treen 
Comes  a  whirl  of  birds  flying,  blue  and  orange  and  green. 

As  a  whirl  of  notes  running  in  a  fugue  that  men  play, 
And  the  thundering  follows  as  the  pipe  flits  away, 
And  the  laughter  comes  after  and  the  hautboys  begin, 
So  they  ran  at  the  hurdle  and  scattered  the  whin. 
As  they  leaped  to  the  race-course  the  sun  burst  from  cloud, 
And  like  tumult  in  dream  came  the  roar  of  the  crowd. 

For  to  right  and  to  left,  now,  were  crowded  men  yelling, 
And  a  great  cry  boomed  backward  like  muffled  bells 

knelling, 
And  a  surge  of  men  running  seemed  to  follow  the  race, 
The  horses  all  trembled  and  quickened  their  pace. 

108 


As  the  porpoise,  grown  weary  of  his  rush  through  the  dim 
Of  the  unlitten  silence  where  the  swiftnesses  swim, 
Learns  at  sudden  the  tumult  of  a  clipper  bound  home 
And  exults  with  this  playmate  and  leaps  in  her  foam, 

Or  as  nightingales  coming  into  England  in  May, 
Coming  songless  at  sunset,  being  worn  with  the  way, 
Settle  spent  in  the  twilight,  drooping  head  under  wing, 
Yet  are  glad  when  the  dark  comes,  while  at  moonrise  they 
sing; 

Or  as  fire  on  a  hillside,  by  happy  boys  kindled, 

That  has  burnt  black  a  heath-tuft,  scorcht  a  bramble,  and 

dwindled, 
Blown  by  wind  yet  arises  in  a  wave  of  flogged  flame, 
So  the  souls  of  those  horses  to  the  testing  time  came. 

Now   they   closed   on   their   leaders,    and    the   running 

increased, 
They  rushed  down  the  arc  curving  round  to  the  east; 
All  the  air  rang  with  roaring,  all  the  peopled  loud  stands 
Roared  aloud  from  tense  faces,  shook  with  hats  and  waved 

hands. 

So  they  cleared  the  green  gorse-bush  by  bursting  it  through, 
There  was  no  time  for  thinking,  there  was  scarce  time  to 

do. 

109 


^fe3j>> 


i»v; 


Charles  gritted  his  spirit  as  he  charged  through  the  gorse: 
"You  must  just  grin  and  suffer:  sit  still  on  your  horse." 


There  in  front  was  a  hurdle  and  the  Distance  Post  white, 
And  the  long,  green,  broad  Straight  washed  with  wind  and 

blown  bright; 
Now  the  roaring  had  screaming,  bringing  names  to  their 

ears: 
"Come,  Soyland!"    "Sir  Lopez!"    Then  cat-calls;  then 

cheers. 

"  Sir  Lopez !   Sir  Lopez ! "  then  the  jigging  brass  laughter 
From  the  yellow  tosst  swing-boats  swooping  rafter  to 

rafter. 
Then  the  blare  of  all  organs,  then  the  roar  of  all  throats, 
And  they  shot  past  the  side  shows,  the  horses  and  boats. 

Now  the  Wants  of  the  Watchers  whirled  into  the  race 
Like  flames  in  their  fury,  like  men  in  the  face, 
Mad-red  from  the  Wanting  that  made  them  alive, 
They  fought  with  those  horses  or  helped  them  to  strive. 

Like  leaves  blown  on  Hudson  when  maples  turn  gold, 
They  whirled  in  their  colour,  they  clutched  to  catch  hold, 
They  sang  to  the  riders,  they  smote  at  their  hearts 
Like  flakes  of  live  fire,  like  castings  of  darts, 
no 


As  a  snow  in  Wisconsin  when  the  darkness  comes  down, 
Running  white  on  the  prairie,  making  all  the  air  brown, 
Blinding  men  with  the  hurry  of  its  millions  of  feet, 
So  the  Wants  pelted  on  them,  so  they  blinded  and  beat. 

And  like  spirits  calm  shining  upon  horses  of  flame, 
Came  the  Friends  of  those  riders  to  shield  them  from 

shame, 
White  as  fire  white-burning,  rushing  each  by  his  friend, 
Singing  songs  of  the  glory  of  the  world  without  end; 

And  as  men  in  Wisconsin  driving  cars  in  the  snow 
Butt  against  its  impulsion  and  face  to  the  blow, 
Tossing  snow  from  their  bonnets  as  a  ship  tosses  foam, 
So  the  Friends  tossed  the  Wantings  as  they  brought  their 
friends  home. 

Now  they  charged  the  last  hurdle  that  led  to  the  Straight, 
Charles  longing  to  ride,  though  his  spirit  said  "Wait." 
He  came  to  his  horses  as  they  came  to  the  leap, 
Eight  hard-driven  horses,  eight  men  breathing  deep. 

On  the  left,  as  he  leaped  it,  a  flashing  of  brown 

Kicking  white  on  the  grass,  showed  that  Thankful  was 

down; 

in 


Then  a  glance,  right  and  left,  showed  that,  barring  all 

flukes, 
It  was  Soyland's,  Sir  Lopez',  or  Peterkinooks'. 

For  Stormalong  blundered  and  dwelt  as  he  landed, 
Counter  Vair's  man  was  beaten  and  Monkery  stranded. 
As  he  reached  to  Red  Ember  the  man  on  the  red 
Cried,  "Lord,  Charlie  Cothill,  I  thought  you  were  dead ! " 

He  passed  the  Red  Ember,  he  came  to  the  flank 
Of  Peterkinooks,  whom  he  reached  and  then  sank. 
There  were  only  two  others,  going  level  alone, 
First  the  spotted  cream  jacket,  then  the  blue,  white  and 
roan. 

Up  the  street  of  green  race-course  they  strained  for  the 

prize, 
While  the  stands  blurred  with  waving  and  the  air  shook 

with  cries: 
"Now,   Sir   Lopez!"     "Come,    Soyland!"     "Now,   Sir 

Lopez !     Now,  now ! ' ' 
Then  Charles  judged  his  second,  but  he  could  not  tell  how. 

But  a  glory  of  sureness  leaped  from  horse  into  man, 
And  the  man  said,  "Now,  beauty,"  and  the  horse  said, 
"lean." 

112 


And  the  long-weary  Royal  made  an  effort  the  more, 
Though  his  heart  thumped  like  drum-beats  as  he  went  to 
the  fore. 

Neck  and  neck  went  Sir  Lopez  and  Soyland  together, 
Soyland  first,  a  short  head,  with  his  neck  all  in  lather; 
Both  were  ridden  their  hardest,  both  were  doing  their  best, 
Right  Royal  reached  Soyland  and  came  to  his  chest. 

There  Soyland's  man  saw  him  with  the  heel  of  his  eye, 
A  horse  with  an  effort  that  could  beat  him  or  tie; 
Then  he  glanced  at  Sir  Lopez,  and  he  bit  through  his  lip, 
And  he  drove  in  his  spurs  and  he  took  up  his  whip. 

There  he  lashed  the  game  Soyland  who  had  given  his  all, 
And  he  gave  three  strides  more,  and  then  failed  at  the  call, 
And  he  dropped  behind  Royal  like  a  leaf  in  a  tide : 
Then  Sir  Lopez  and  Royal  ran  on  side  by  side. 

There  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  they  rode,  and  were 

grim; 
Charles  thought,  "That's  Sir  Lopez.    I  shall  never  beat 

him." 
All  the  yells  for  Sir  Lopez  seemed  to  darken  the  air, 
They  were  rushing  past  Emmy  and  the  White  Post  was 

there. 

113 


He  drew  to  Sir  Lopez;  but  Sir  Lopez  drew  clear; 
Right  Royal  clung  to  him  and  crept  to  his  ear. 
Then  the  man  on  Sir  Lopez  judged  the  moment  had  come 
For  the  last  ounce  of  effort  that  would  bring  his  horse  home. 

So  he  picked  up  his  whip  for  three  swift  slashing  blows, 
And  Sir  Lopez  drew  clear,  but  Right  Royal  stuck  close. 
Charles  sat  still  as  stone,  for  he  dared  not  to  stir, 
There  was  that  in  Right  Royal  that  needed  no  spur. 

In  the  trembling  of  an  instant  power  leaped  up  within, 
Royal's  pride  of  high  spirit  not  to  let  the  bay  win. 
Up  he  went,  past  his  withers,  past  his  neck,  to  his  head. 
With  Sir  Lopez'  man  lashing,  Charles  still,  seeing  red. 

So  they  rushed  for  one  second,  then  Sir  Lopez  shot  out: 
Charles  thought,  "There,  he's  done  me,  without  any  doubt. 
Oh,  come  now,  Right  Royal!" 

And  Sir  Lopez  changed  feet 
And  his  ears  went  back  level;  Sir  Lopez  was  beat. 

Right  Royal  went  past  him,  half  an  inch,  half  a  head, 

Half  a  neck,  he  was  leading,  for  an  instant  he  led; 

Then  a  hooped  black  and  coral  flew  up  like  a  shot, 

With  a  lightning-like  effort  from  little  Gavotte. 
114 


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The  little  bright  mare,  made  of  nerves  and  steel  springs, 
Shot  level  beside  him,  shot  ahead  as  with  wings. 
Charles  felt  his  horse  quicken,  felt  the  desperate  beat 
Of  the  blood  in  his  body  from  his  knees  to  his  feet. 

Three  terrible  strides  brought  him  up  to  the  mare, 

Then  they  rushed  to  wild  shouting  through  a  whirl  of 

blown  air; 
Then  Gavotte  died  to  nothing;  Soyland  came  once  again 
Till  his  muzzle  just  reached  to  the  knot  on  his  rein. 

Then  a  whirl  of  urged  horses  thundered  up,  whipped  and 

blown, 
Soyland,  Peterkinooks,  and  Red  Ember  the  roan. 
For  an  instant  they  challenged,  then  they  drooped  and 

were  done; 
Then  the  White  Post  shot  backwards,  Right  Royal  had 

won. 

Won  a  half  length  from  Soyland,  Red  Ember  close  third; 
Fourth,  Peterkinooks;  fifth,  Gavotte  harshly  spurred; 
Sixth,  Sir  Lopez,  whose  rider  said  "Just  at  the  Straight 
He  swerved  at  the  hurdle  and  twisted  a  plate." 

Then  the  numbers  went  up;  then  John  Harding  appeared 
To  lead  in  the  Winner  while  the  bookmakers  cheered. 

us 


-2*   -e*  ^& 


Then  the  riders  weighed-in,  and  the  meeting  was  over, 
And  bright  Emmy  Crowthorne  could  go  with  her  lover. 

For  the  bets  on  Right  Royal  which  Cothill  had  made 
The  taker  defaulted,  they  never  were  paid; 
The  taker  went  West,  whence  he  sent  Charles's  bride 
Silver  bit-cups  and  beadwork  on  antelope  hide. 

Charles  married  his  lady,  but  he  rode  no  more  races; 
He  lives  on  the  Downland  on  the  blown  grassy  places, 
Where  he  and  Right  Royal  can  canter  for  hours 
On  the  flock-bitten  turf  full  of  tiny  blue  flowers. 

There  the  Roman  pitcht  camp,  there  the  Saxon  kept  sheep, 
There  he  lives  out  this  Living  that  no  man  can  keep, 
That  is  manful  but  a  moment  before  it  must  pass, 
Like  the  stars  sweeping  westward,  like  the  wind  on  the 
grass. 


116 


4  60 


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